Seven

My baby is seven months old today. We had a Plunket check this week — our Plunket lady is a perfunctory box-ticker of dire warnings and pointless, prescriptive rules (one day let’s talk about whether Plunket is actually helpful, or just adding more this-way-or-else pressure to mothers who are already under enough of it) so we generally just tick her …

And yet

I once went snorkeling in a series of caves underneath Cancún. The entrance was a dark, echoing cavern; a deep, ragged hole in the earth. I think of that cave whenever I see my belly button in the mirror. It’s like someone took a clay model of my midsection and left it in the sun too long. Last week I …

Adventures in multicultural relationships

“What’s a stick in Portuguese? Stick-o?” “You’re so racist. It’s galho.” “Okay, then what’s a trunk?” “…Tronco.” — “I want you to be happy and do the things you enjoy while giving me your full attention at all times.” — “I’m peeved.” “What does peeved mean?” “It means… you know, peeved.” “Very helpful. Do you even remember why you’re mad …

Birth

I love birth stories. I was dead keen to write one… before I gave birth. For the first few weeks afterwards, I was carrying around too much shame to even speak about it: I’d done it wrong, I hadn’t been cool (I lost my shit completely, and then lost it some more), I hadn’t coped. I did too much hippie …

Well, I’ll be.

I’m thinking about becoming a florist, or a clothing designer, or a carpenter. What’s the word for people who make shoes? A shoemaker, Google? Surely not. I want a word like milliner. Ah, cobbler. I’m thinking about becoming a cobbler. About becoming almost anything that involves creating physical things that can begin and end and be held and used. Anything …

Spicy food and cat litter

When people talk about pregnancy cravings, they name normal things like ice cream or sawdust or pickles. This baby is obsessed with chilli. I’m putting it on everything, in quantities that would make my normal self burst into flame. I’d blame Brazil’s spicy Latin genes (#racism), but he’s an even bigger chilli wuss than I usually am. — My brain …

16 weeks

I’m trying not to think too much about who this baby is. They’re their own person already, even inside me, and they have their own story. I don’t want to have too many expectations about what I want or hope for them. Still, I hope they get their father’s musical talent and his easy way with people. I hope they …

Found a weta in my towel, though.

I just asked Brazil to go and eat the leftover beef from Saturday’s dinner party, which means I’m officially turning into my mother — who I once found handing my father half-empty containers of cream cheese and pesto dip directly from the fridge, a pile of empties behind him and a spoon halfway to his mouth. I’ve also started opening …

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