CarmenBad pregnancy days
August 11th 2008 01:53
Today was scary. Today I felt like I’d taken 10 steps back in my quest for “being cool about my impending visit to the delivery ward”. It started out with a bad dream and finished up with me almost throwing up at the Westpac bank.
In my dream I gave birth to a baby girl – although this wasn’t the first time I’d dreamed of the birth, which is always ridiculously easy, unrealistically pain-free, and sometimes takes place under a general anaesthetic. To follow on with the unrealistic dream-like nature of the narrative, I was on a bus tour and my baby was sleeping through the night. One morning I went to check my baby and she was sleeping soundly, and then I went to wave off my adopted Chinese daughter, Hoo (in real life I don’t have any other children, adopted, Chinese, or otherwise), who was going to school. Then it occurred to me my baby girl might have been sleeping too soundly and I ought to rouse her, to make sure she was ok. When I got back to the portable crib, she’d been stolen. Then before I had time to properly fall apart, my boyfriend’s alarm went off. The whole thing was rather unnerving.
Next I had a long-ish chat with my best friend from high school, who has a two year old. She was running me through baby accessories and the plethora of items she could lend me. I was extremely grateful but it came as a shock to learn of the existence of things I hadn’t even considered yet. Play mats, bath rings, “bumbo” seats – did I want to borrow the baby-holder backpack thing that you can shove on your back when you’re feeling adventurous? This made me think: what else haven’t I thought of yet? What else don’t I know and how will I know that I don’t know it?
Then I went to the bank to open an interest-bearing savings account in which to shove the proceeds of my soon-to-be-sold apartment in Sydney. The only other Australian bank account I can lay claim to is a joint account for everyday spending, and I don’t want my boyfriend to incur half the tax liability for the interest earned on my savings, depending on how long they sit there while we dither over our own house purchase. Therefore, I decided I’d just pop in to Westpac and set up a separate account. I allocated an estimated 20 minutes for this task.
I spend 20 minutes just waiting, and then I am called over by Dawn, who is going to assist me with all my banking needs today. Dawn notices my burgeoning, bulging belly and becomes very excited, quizzing me about my due date, whether I am excited, whether “Daddy” is excited, whether I’ve decorated the nursery yet, whether we’ve settled on names, and finally, what is it I am actually after today, financially speaking.
I try my best to share her enthusiasm, even though my stomach’s rumbling and I realise I should have visited the bathroom before I came. Then I share my simple desire for a simple bank account.
Dawn first has to grill me with a series of questions, as this is part of The Procedure. Do I require phone and internet banking? Do I have home and contents insurance? Are we looking to buy our own home? Do I have my superannuation under control?
To home and contents insurance, I carefully explain that it isn’t on my radar as we are currently renting and the house has alarms anyway (not to mention a ferocious cat) and I’m home pretty much all the time. And besides which, we barely own anything (my worldly possessions are all on a ship en route from London, and my boyfriend’s are in the shed out the back of his house in Kalgoorlie). We are literally living with the bare essentials.
“But,” Dawn says in a patient, motherly tone (it transpires Dawn has four children of her own – Chelsea, 19, Tyson, 17, Oliver, 15, and Rianna, 13) “think about whether you’d be able to afford to replace everything tomorrow if you lost it today. I mean everything. Your kitchen utensils, your baby clothes, your rings – your precious irreplaceable rings! - your bras even. Imagine how much all that would cost. Now, I want you to walk around your house tonight and tally everything up. And then I want you to come back to me and let me know. You can’t be too careful you know – what if your house burns down?”
I nod sagely. I don’t have any f***ing rings, I think, and only one bra, and I’m wearing it. But Dawn isn’t to know of course, that I’m a recently arrived, unmarried hobo – all she sees is a young (ish) mum-to-be, who’s finished work and is probably struggling to make ends meet. So I don’t correct her.
Then she’s on at me about arranging finance for the new home, as it would be just so lovely to be able to decorate the nursery before bub arrives, wouldn’t it? I smile. She gives me a business card for one of the HFMs (Home Finance Managers) so I can make an appointment. I take it and tuck it away safely for recycling later. Then she wants to introduce me to the resident HFM, Janine, who also coos about how exciting the impending baby is, and how crucial it is that we set up a meeting ASAP to discuss the mortgage.
The thing is, if my boyfriend’s house sells, we shouldn’t really need a mortgage. Why I don’t tell her this I don’t know, but I let her go on. And on. And on.
By this stage I’m starting to feel sick, and there’s a knot in the back of my neck.
She goes on. “You know, the best advice I can give you Michelle (my name’s Carmen) is to listen to all the advice you get, but don’t take any of it on board. Otherwise you’ll go mad. Mad.”
I nod my agreement.
She taps away at the screen. “People were forever telling me I ought to introduce a bottle to my Chelsea after three months, but I said no, I’m going to breastfeed my baby for two years. And if you want cloth nappies, you get cloth nappies and don’t listen to them. It’s your baby, not theirs, Michelle.”
I smile feebly but my head’s starting to spin.
I honestly think I’m going to be sick as both women blather on about mortgages and contents insurance, and when they ask me for the third time what I’m doing with the nursery, I feel like I’m going to cry. I have to get out of there. I’ve been sitting across from Dawn for 45 minutes, my armpits are like lakes and my bladder’s at breaking point.
I hope my baby isn’t detecting all my fear and panic, as I’m sure it’s all part of the mood swings and the dreaded hormones and will disappear once I’ve had a 24 hour reprieve from all this grown-up mortgage talk, but all I feel like doing right now is strapping on a backpack (a real one) and heading off to Vietnam.
In my dream I gave birth to a baby girl – although this wasn’t the first time I’d dreamed of the birth, which is always ridiculously easy, unrealistically pain-free, and sometimes takes place under a general anaesthetic. To follow on with the unrealistic dream-like nature of the narrative, I was on a bus tour and my baby was sleeping through the night. One morning I went to check my baby and she was sleeping soundly, and then I went to wave off my adopted Chinese daughter, Hoo (in real life I don’t have any other children, adopted, Chinese, or otherwise), who was going to school. Then it occurred to me my baby girl might have been sleeping too soundly and I ought to rouse her, to make sure she was ok. When I got back to the portable crib, she’d been stolen. Then before I had time to properly fall apart, my boyfriend’s alarm went off. The whole thing was rather unnerving.
Next I had a long-ish chat with my best friend from high school, who has a two year old. She was running me through baby accessories and the plethora of items she could lend me. I was extremely grateful but it came as a shock to learn of the existence of things I hadn’t even considered yet. Play mats, bath rings, “bumbo” seats – did I want to borrow the baby-holder backpack thing that you can shove on your back when you’re feeling adventurous? This made me think: what else haven’t I thought of yet? What else don’t I know and how will I know that I don’t know it?
Then I went to the bank to open an interest-bearing savings account in which to shove the proceeds of my soon-to-be-sold apartment in Sydney. The only other Australian bank account I can lay claim to is a joint account for everyday spending, and I don’t want my boyfriend to incur half the tax liability for the interest earned on my savings, depending on how long they sit there while we dither over our own house purchase. Therefore, I decided I’d just pop in to Westpac and set up a separate account. I allocated an estimated 20 minutes for this task.
I spend 20 minutes just waiting, and then I am called over by Dawn, who is going to assist me with all my banking needs today. Dawn notices my burgeoning, bulging belly and becomes very excited, quizzing me about my due date, whether I am excited, whether “Daddy” is excited, whether I’ve decorated the nursery yet, whether we’ve settled on names, and finally, what is it I am actually after today, financially speaking.
I try my best to share her enthusiasm, even though my stomach’s rumbling and I realise I should have visited the bathroom before I came. Then I share my simple desire for a simple bank account.
Dawn first has to grill me with a series of questions, as this is part of The Procedure. Do I require phone and internet banking? Do I have home and contents insurance? Are we looking to buy our own home? Do I have my superannuation under control?
To home and contents insurance, I carefully explain that it isn’t on my radar as we are currently renting and the house has alarms anyway (not to mention a ferocious cat) and I’m home pretty much all the time. And besides which, we barely own anything (my worldly possessions are all on a ship en route from London, and my boyfriend’s are in the shed out the back of his house in Kalgoorlie). We are literally living with the bare essentials.
“But,” Dawn says in a patient, motherly tone (it transpires Dawn has four children of her own – Chelsea, 19, Tyson, 17, Oliver, 15, and Rianna, 13) “think about whether you’d be able to afford to replace everything tomorrow if you lost it today. I mean everything. Your kitchen utensils, your baby clothes, your rings – your precious irreplaceable rings! - your bras even. Imagine how much all that would cost. Now, I want you to walk around your house tonight and tally everything up. And then I want you to come back to me and let me know. You can’t be too careful you know – what if your house burns down?”
I nod sagely. I don’t have any f***ing rings, I think, and only one bra, and I’m wearing it. But Dawn isn’t to know of course, that I’m a recently arrived, unmarried hobo – all she sees is a young (ish) mum-to-be, who’s finished work and is probably struggling to make ends meet. So I don’t correct her.
Then she’s on at me about arranging finance for the new home, as it would be just so lovely to be able to decorate the nursery before bub arrives, wouldn’t it? I smile. She gives me a business card for one of the HFMs (Home Finance Managers) so I can make an appointment. I take it and tuck it away safely for recycling later. Then she wants to introduce me to the resident HFM, Janine, who also coos about how exciting the impending baby is, and how crucial it is that we set up a meeting ASAP to discuss the mortgage.
The thing is, if my boyfriend’s house sells, we shouldn’t really need a mortgage. Why I don’t tell her this I don’t know, but I let her go on. And on. And on.
By this stage I’m starting to feel sick, and there’s a knot in the back of my neck.
She goes on. “You know, the best advice I can give you Michelle (my name’s Carmen) is to listen to all the advice you get, but don’t take any of it on board. Otherwise you’ll go mad. Mad.”
I nod my agreement.
She taps away at the screen. “People were forever telling me I ought to introduce a bottle to my Chelsea after three months, but I said no, I’m going to breastfeed my baby for two years. And if you want cloth nappies, you get cloth nappies and don’t listen to them. It’s your baby, not theirs, Michelle.”
I smile feebly but my head’s starting to spin.
I honestly think I’m going to be sick as both women blather on about mortgages and contents insurance, and when they ask me for the third time what I’m doing with the nursery, I feel like I’m going to cry. I have to get out of there. I’ve been sitting across from Dawn for 45 minutes, my armpits are like lakes and my bladder’s at breaking point.
I hope my baby isn’t detecting all my fear and panic, as I’m sure it’s all part of the mood swings and the dreaded hormones and will disappear once I’ve had a 24 hour reprieve from all this grown-up mortgage talk, but all I feel like doing right now is strapping on a backpack (a real one) and heading off to Vietnam.
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