Puke

Finally Unwired have replaced my faulty modem. Having made me plug it in at three separate suburbs around Sydney to ensure it was the modem and not the user or signal strength that was the problem, they then sent me a new one.... to Chullora.

I have no idea where Chullora is.

The poor bloke they were trying to give it to rang my mobile number on the package and asked where I was. He'd never heard of Marrickville. I rang unwired. They had never heard of me.

But all's well that ends well. Good timing actually.

I've heard it bandied about that there are two ways to win an argument with a woman, and that neither works. So I listened to what she said and waited three months to the day.

Our bathroom is acoustically stunning. The sound of morning sickness swells to orchestral proportions, echoing through the house and announcing to the neighbours that Mrs A. is either bulimic, alcoholic, or about to get much bigger in the middle of her body like a chuppa chup that was put together wrong. Sadly for her it's not the second scenario. Happily for me it's not the first scenario.

Who named it morning sickness? Data that I have gathered over the last three months suggests that in the accurate description department people have been sleeping on the job. Still the reality makes every day and every outing an experience to remember. She could write a book on places to puke, and the relevant expletives to throw at ones partner when ones partner asks meekly if she is all right.

We had the obligatory ultrasound at the obligatory time, and the woman who administered it sounded exactly like a slimmer, higher pitched version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Mrs A. walked in and laid on the little bed like thing. Mrs Schwarzenegger fiddled with dials and keyboards for a moment, then proceeded to show us grainy black and white photos of the foetus.

During the ultrasound she exclaimed "Ya. Loog at ze bootiful beby. I luff zis job ven I see ze bootiful beby".

A few weeks later we went to the Royal North Shore Hospital to be interviewed by the midwife. She asked all the pertinent questions, like did either of us have syphilis. I answered by claiming that I was Napoleon. Mrs A. tried to calm her by saying that she probably thought we were a little strange.

"No", she said, "I see a lot of people".

"Are they with us now"? I asked.

My Father was a father, and his before him etc etc, so I think I should do OK.

Late November or early December will prove me right or wrong.

Comments

[Sarcasmo]

That's happy news, Napoleon; congratulations! Hopefully they'll let Mrs. A and the litte ones visit you in Elba (or Chullora...wherever they exile you and your modem this time). :)

[Flashman]

Aww, congrats, emperor!

[Sponky]

Woo hoo!! Thats fantastic Johnny!! Congrats to you and Mrs A!

[Rowdy Theologian]

Congratulations to you both!

[Sass]

That is AWESOME!!!! Congratulations to you both! (Or is it to you all?) Whatever it is, congratulations!!!

[JtH]

Thanks guys. I'm a bit chuffed after prior miscarriages. Fingers crossed.