Perhaps it is down to my waistline returning (albeit painfully slowly for an impatient chick like me) to its former proportions, but I find my 9 month long dormant interest in fashion suddenly reawakened.

Maybe it's because I've just had a serious dose of Kerr-envy, courtesy of Miranda's predictable win of 'Style Icon of the Century' (or some other such salubrious accolade) at the InStyle awards, as I heard courtesy of this morning's news.

Or perhaps it's because, as always, the Mums of The Playground do not fail to impress.

I stand here in my daggytragic breastfeeding uniform of all-black, easy to remove clothing, and am in serious awe.

These mums look smokin', even with their rug rats dangling in various degrees off their person. "I'm getting to the gym everyday" I hear a celestial being tell her girlfriend, beaming with the glee of one who fits into her size 8 jeans again. "They have an excellent childcare section". Her skin glows and any sign of telltale lumps 'n bumps around her mid section have been banished by some serious sessions with the dumb bells.

She's wearing tapered combat trousers with French Sole ballet flats in tiger skin, and a white vest that flaunts her toned arms. I. Want. What. She's. Got.

Another delish dame is in bright orange skinny jeans with Elle Macpherson I-don't-care messy hair that's actually highlighted and coiffed to salon perfection, red Converse sneakers and a grey boyfriend shirt. I'll. Have. Me. Some. Of. That. Pu-Leez.

I'm not quite ready to unleash my wallet at Westfield. I have a few more Tracy Anderson DVD's to go before my "skin returns to the muscle", to quote the pint-sized Colonel. Torture hath no bounds when it comes to her insane number of repetitions. (my husband says the cover of her Post Pregnancy Workout DVD reminds him of a porno movie. Ahem.)

But there's nothing quite as satisfying as a bargain basement shopping spree when you're stuck at an 'interim size', which is the line I'm myself right now.

I feel a trip to Vinnies coming on thick and fast.

So there I was making an urgent dash for the nearest bench in the public playground, desperate to get my boob out and quieten the urgent newborn mewing of my 3 week old Little Miss in a space where my 3 year old Little Man would stop hanging off my right leg for 10 seconds.

The fact that an innocent dad was perched less than 30cm away from me on said bench didn't even enter my consciousness for more than a nano second. Oh, what a difference a second child makes!

I recall first time around swaddling myself in muslin and discreetly trying to conceal my boob madly under blankets, and all the while I was struggling like hell with breastfeeding and all those stray bits of fabric designed to protect my modesty did nothing to make it any easier, catching in my little man's mouth and falling off me as I strove for the ever-illusive perfect latch.

This time quite frankly I don't give a rat's whisker who sees my engorged boobs. If people are that desperate for a cheap thrill, then stare they may, and frankly I'm sure I'd barely even notice. So long as my Little Miss is sucking away merrily, I could care less what else is going on in the world.

But it does occur to me that as a first time mum who didn't take immediately to breastfeeding (* understatement of the century - channel bleeding, scabby nipples and excruciating agony every time thedreaded sucking ensued), the pressure I felt to continue with it was unbearable at times.

Living in a PC culture, every corner Early Childhood Centre has posters plastered everywhere reminding women that 'breast is best'. Which it is of course, but what do you do if your breasts simply aren't coping with the onslaught of 2 hourly newborn feeds? I persisted and eventually made it through the wilderness, but I so very nearly packed it in, and the cynical judgmental stares of the ECC midwives who all seem to have had personality transplants before entering the building, just made me want to kick them hard on the shin.

I'm grateful now that I was lucky enough to experience the amazing bonding experience (and, let's be honest, the quite ravishing joy of the letdown) that is breastfeeding. And that I'm doing so a second time. But I say hallelujah for the odd bottle of formula and the rest it gives my weary udders.

Because even the best cows need a good night's sleep in the barn every now and then.

Here is a smattering of what it's felt like to inhabit my somewhat foggy, but mostly endorphin-laden new mum world this week. Conversation snippets from my new shank's pony stomping ground of playgrounds/ cafes/ nail bars/ bus stops - all with my Little Miss in tow happily suspended in her sling or Bjorn.

The luscious twenty-something 'Miss It', full of Change-the-World optimism, tanned and bright-eyed having a morning coffee with her parents who seemed as much in her thrall as I was. "I'd like an extra hot skim latte" she says to the Bondi waitress who is more Swedish than Heidi. "No problem" says Miss Sweden flashing her pearly whites. Miss It replies to the cafe in general, "Oh, they know what that is here!" before conspirationally sharing with Miss Sweden "I've just come back from New York and they don't have a clue how to make coffee there." Stated with the jaded resignation of a global jet setter but with just a little too much 'look at meeeeeee! I've just been to the BIG APPLE!' for the casual ho humness to be credible.

In an effort to flatten my now expansive mushy tummy, I embark on the Bondi to Bronte walk. I've forgotten how to wrap up my Little Miss in her Bjorn so end up readjusting her blanket 17 million times until I figure out a system where it doesn't shift every time my torso moves. Fortunately I'm entertained by a bevy of weird and wonderful folk as I work through it.

The out of towners. AKA Tourists. AKA Dumb Smilers overawed by Sydney's magnificence. They stick out like a lipstick smear on a white collar because they wear their cameras like badges. A wife says to her perplexed looking hubby, "Right, stand there (with a panoramic sea view behind him) and say something interesting." (an instruction destined to prompt only the most mundane of responses. A bit like when someone says 'smile' and you plaster a false look of gaiety on your face that makes you look like a parody of yourself in the pictures). Hubby stares at her like a drug mule at a customs official and under the pressure of her gaze can only muster up a "Hi Joe" to his unseen audience as she films away, expecting so much more.

I'm struck by the unknown stories of the people I see. What lurks beneath? What secret thoughts do they squirrel away? A mum and daughter are all smiles behind their oversized sunnies. But maybe she quietly covets her daughter's dishy boyfriend.

A pair of 50-somethings are mid conversation and I catch a snippet of "Paris in September" which makes me desperate to know more but they're gone before I can flap my ears any further.

I spy two shirtless Adonis training buddies who catch my sleep deprived eye as they ripple past me, a stray bead of pure man sweat landing on my saggy forearm, inspiring me to walk a little faster and stand a little straighter.

In a beachside playground I hear a mum scolding her toddler. "I said no Hamish, don't chase the seagulls", as he winds himself up to a full blown terror tantrum in protest of the audacity of her reprimand and the uncalled-for infringement of his free will.

There is a gaggle of giggling 20-goddesses quaffing ciggies like it's as glamorous and life-giving as a cylinder of pure Oxygen, one of whom falls off her coffee stool, orange scarf and lustrous brunette locks flying everywhere and she laughs hard like someone comfortable in her own perfect skin.

I see a dad dealing with a poop nappy (clearly one of his first) who says to his little mite with loving forgiveness, "Awr right dahlin, it doesn't stink too bad" amid truck-driver-on-a-portaloo noises ventured by him in empathy as he wrestles with a nappy bag like a monster in the night.

These are the sights and sounds of newborn mummy land. What a beautiful symphony it is.

I must confess that I hesitated for ages before posting this but I got over myself eventually because it makes a point that was so fundamental to my two truly phenomenal birth experiences, enough to outweigh my personal fear of over-sharing. (yes, ironic for a blogger, I realise).

That point is that much like an Olympic athlete or a world class stage performer rehearses the event over and over ad nauseum before the Big Day, the power of the mind is equally as mysterious and essential when it comes to birthing. You have the power to choose the birth you want for yourself, it is that plain and that simple.

I wrote this birth plan 6 months ago and when I tell you that my actual birth experience mirrored it virtually to the letter, I am not overstating things. Now, I'm no hero and I'm certainly no Olympian but I did see it play out a million times in my head, much like a teenage girl drawing on all her Mills and Boon inspired imagery as she anticipates her bone-shakingly good first kiss. And if it worked for a mere mortal such as me, maybe just maybe, it will work for others out there who are seeking a different path too.

I didn't do it alone, either. Check out these websites for my Dream Team of awesome support people. Think of it like getting the right trainer, someone you trust, admire and who understands innately what outcome you want for yourself in the end. At the very least, these wonderful souls may provide a different take on birth for those of you who've only been exposed to Hollywood cliches of screaming women with their legs in stirrups.

http://www.thelifepod.com.au/

http://www.calmbirth.com.au/

http://www.awakenyourhealth.com.au/

And last but not least, do yourself a real favour and choose an obstetrician or birthing centre that respects your wishes and who you feel really, truly comfortable with, not just in a medical sense, but more importantly as human beings you like and feel safe with.

Ok, here goes:

The day of my precious new baby's birth

It's late, dark and quiet. I wake suddenly and feel a feeling I've had once before in my tummy, a strong sensation that's recognizable yet still begs a question - is it time? Can this be it at last? I sit with it for a few minutes, smiling to myself as my confidence grows that yes, yes, this IS it, and my beautiful, strong, resilient 2nd baby is about to enter our lives. I nudge my husband awake and say, " it's time, our baby is ready" and he is overwhelmed with joy and excitement.

We check on our little boy, our unbelievable first born miracle, and call granny to come and stay with him until morning. There are tears of joy and love everywhere. We are filled with eager anticipation and play final guessing games - boy or girl? No one minds! We are just so ecstatic about our baby's arrival. The sensation is building fast and we call the hospital en route to let them know our baby is coming. There is no pain, just breath, and calmness and a certainty that I can do it, that between my baby and I we hold all the secrets of the universe in us, and we are an all-powerful team that no one and nothing can beat. I hold my hubby's hand as we drive through the twinkling lights of early morning and promise I will try not to vomit on him this time. We have our overnight bag, our iPad music and our oils. We are ready. We are calm and joyous.

We arrive and it is calm and peaceful. Baby is eager to join us and we breathe, breathe, breathe and it is fast yet slow, only as fast as it needs to be, as we work together, harnessing all of the power of the universe. The nurses tell us how well we are doing, my body remembers and it embraces this amazing journey for a 2nd time.

I feel my baby responding, willing its way into our world, knowing that it is loved entirely and has the most special place in our lives. It is easy now, and before I can grasp just how easy and magnificent, my baby is with us, perfect and curious, a wonderful beloved child that we longed for and hoped for so desperately. It is early morning now, the daylight spills into our room and our baby feeds, hungrily, happily, part of me still, yet already its own self. We are at peace together, and I marvel at how quickly and restfully baby emerged.

We enjoy the time together and wait eagerly to share it all with our family, to introduce this tiny, brilliant soul who already feels like they have always been part of us.

It is the joint best day of my life. How astoundingly lucky am I to have two?

While I have every intention of writing a suitably euphoric blog about my A-MAZING second birth experience (because OMG, it CAN be done twice! Silly me for ever doubting myself), as I come down down from my oxytocin sponsored 5 day high, the thing I really want to share today is all the stuff I'd forgotten about birth that is well, simultaneously kinda gruesome and kinda funny.

The most famous midwife in the world, Ina May Gaskin, writes about observing birth for the first time growing up on a farm. I think it was a ewe of the Baa Baa variety that she watched birthing her little lamb, bleating away in the barn one starry night. (cue cheesy music and Van Gogh brushstrokes).

Well, on April 17th, when my Little Miss finally stretched, and decided she was well cooked enough to emerge into the world a full week overdue, I felt like a sheep. My labour was fast and furious, one hour in total, and while I count my blessings that it was over almost before it began, it came with some...mess.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but it included The Shakes. Vomit. Poop. And Blood. Pretty much in that succession.

None of which differed from my first equally drug free natural childbirth, but when it happens in one hour rather than seven, you remember EVERY SINGLE detail. (the midwife was wearing clear lipgloss and an Alice Band for example).

Warning - graphic description about to follow. Not suitable for those who think birthing is all about soft fluffy toweling gowns and Moet Chandon in the hospital mini bar fridge to celebrate afterwards. (although judgements aside, I did scoff 2 glasses on day two with the unladylike abandon of a banshee).

I recall vividly how, when the vomit came, my husband swiftly placed a sick bag over my face with the calm grace of a seasoned airline steward. (last time I puked all over his favourite pair of Nikes)

And how the glossed up midwife quietly cleaned up any offending bodily carnage as it spilled out of me, unlike the poor old sheep whose place in the hay was no doubt soiled beyond all redemption by the end of it all.

I'd forgotten the sheer intensity of childbirth. Even amongst the beauty and anticipation of the precious reward at the end, it is a force to be reckoned with. The most powerful you will ever feel as a woman, for sure, but also the most vulnerable to mother nature's whim. I handle birth well, but there were moments there that threatened to overwhelm me.

This time I was also aware of how weird labour must be for the dads. Yep, I had time to give that a passing thought in my Hour of Power (hey, that's the same duration as a Pump class, and I felt like I'd done 28 of them once it was over).

There my poor husband stood, me squeezing his hand till it was blue and half broken, whispering sweet kind things in my ear, but still merely an observer, my body demanding the full attention of everyone in the room, perplexing him in ways it's never done before. He tells me birth is a very 'present' experience for him, and I didn't have the heart to say that's like watching the Olympics from seat 489 row J whereas I got to win the 100m dash.

I'd forgotten about how your tummy stays round and your belly button protrudes once the baby's come. I packed heaps of T-shirt tops and soft pants to wear afterwards and I just look like a Teletubbie squeezing unceremoniously into The Little Mermaid's outfits.

Plus how hot your breasts feel as your milk comes in. And how they really do resemble udders and not of the Playboy variety either, cracked nipples and lovebites from over-zealous early feeding frenzies generally not considered Hefner-worthy.

These are the things playing on my mind today. Next post : I'll share my birth plan which, cynics be damned, was pretty much exactly how the Real Deal played out. Who says the mind isn't all-powerful?

Power pumping aside, I'm a very, very lucky girl.

So the story unfolds something like this.

 

I, in my humble quest to walk, squat, reflexologise and generally invoke every old wive's tale in the book to urge this 41 week old baby out of my gargantuan belly, was off with my new best friend, ye olde iPod, rampaging around our local park with blistered heels worn like the wounds of a woman scorned.

My poor husband, desperate to do anything to appease my voracious appetite to squeeze out Le Bebe, and constantly being yelled at by me for zero reason whatsoever other than that he's within easy firing distance, escaped with my little man to the relative safety of the playground.

 

Where he encountered a teeny tiny sample of the joys of being up close and personal with the quagmire that is 'Parenting' which inspired my blog in the first place.

He was slightly green as he recounted the tale of the three year old whose nappy was so squalid and overloaded with turd that dollops of the heavy dried brown stuff protruded out the bottom like the forlorn remnants of a bad Brazilian.

While all the other parents in smelling distance silently dry retched as they dragged their kids away from the human fly-trap, the errant child's father, intermittently sipping on his disposable plastic cup of wine (as you do in a kids' playground...) continued to pick her up and act as though allowing your walking, talking, fully compos mentis child to stew in her own extrement was just dandy, thanks very much.

My husband's horror was palpable as he recounted the tale when I emerged up the hill sweating with the anticipation of impending labour (like, anytime this century), and yet I was hardly even surprised.

I've seen worse, you see. As has any mother who's spent over two thousand hours hanging out like a voyeur in parks.

Steaming, heaving little microcosms of the world that they are.

Imagine you've cleaned the house to exhausting A-Type standards, scrubbing like a madwoman with your head dangerously inside the oven, and wiping down the pantry shelves like the Queen will be licking them later.

You've excelled yourself preparing Provencal Seafood Fricassee from scratch, laid a table so beautiful your grandmother would be proud, and liberally lit a few tea tree lights to create the perfect welcoming ambience.

You've even managed to tear off your apron, apply some NARS Orgasm illuminator and embellish your ears with a simply divine pair of yellow suede danglies.

You breathe. You wonder.

You wait.

Your husband smiles at you and says, "Let's just enjoy the dinner, sweetheart" and so you do, but there is something missing. A pinch of salt you should've added. Half a glass more white wine? Your gastronomic feast just misses because it lacks some essential un-named element.

The hum and buzz of the dinner companion you so eagerly anticipated.

The connection of a new kindred spirit in your seemingly too-small world..

Something long-awaited and...overdue.

My baby.

Please ring the buzzer little one. Come and eat and live and laugh and learn and fly with us.

I miss you before we've even met.

I have a friend who is very wise and clever, and who once, many years ago wrote me a letter when we were colleagues saying all the things she thought about me that are usually reserved for scrawled messages on farewell cards. Why is it, she mused, that we can never say what we really feel until someone is halfway out the office door with a box of personal items in their hands?

It was such a powerful letter that 10 years later I still carry it around in an inner sleeve of my wallet, smudged ink, browning paper and all. I read it about once a year and it always makes me cry. That someone could feel all those wonderful things about guarded, introspective little old me, and I would never even have known if she hadn't been brave enough to commit her opinion to paper.

I am guilty of bottling up my feelings and not sharing openly enough how much people mean to me. I say 'Thank You' and 'I'm Sorry' less readily than I should. It's one of my many flaws, because I feel these things deeply but some reservation, some fear, something I can't quite fathom deep inside myself holds me back.

There are a few people out there in this great big Blogosphere that still mystifies me in so many ways, who absolutely and unreservedly deserve a Big Shout Out from this humble blogger. If I wasn't so utterly hopeless with HTML code, I'd hoist your buttons up on my side bar but alas, utterly hopeless I remain.

So, in no particular order, and before I temporarily take my maternity leave from blogging for awhile, kudos, thanks and admiration to the following lovely folk out there who have all made me a better blogger along the way:

To all the gifted photographers who have allowed me to draw on the magical shots on your sites, thank you. The keen observations of your canny eyes inspire me endlessly. Check out some of my all-time favourites-

http://www.daydreamlily.com/

http://www.englishmuse.com/

http://www.herecomesthesunblog.com/

To blogging queen and über success story, Glowless over at http://www.wheresmyglow.com/

You are indeed a generous Blog-Star for letting me Flog my Blog almost every Friday on your site without asking anything in return. I bow down to your Royalness and say 'I am not worthy'.

To my blogging friend Zanni at Heart Mama

http://heartmama.net/

For being an all-round awesome person, so kind and supportive, and someone who is entirely honest and free of arrogance, you leave me in awe.

And last but not least to all my loyal readers and commentors. I moan and groan like a constipated old woman about my blog not having enough traffic, and I feel like a bit of a fraud in the blogging world because I am a shocker at most of the things that make other bloggers super successful, but you guys give me a daily reality check and remind me how lucky I am to have this platform in the first place. There really are no words of thanks big enough to express how much that means to me.

Please be patient and forgiving as my blog trickles down to nothing over the next little while as I focus my energy and attention onto my precious baby. You may hear from me sporadically, but I really need this last little burst of time before my baby comes to nest and internalise.

I will pop up again, soonish, I promise. Hopefully wiser, stronger and more curious about the world than ever before.

And God-willing, eating red meat again.

Dearest Sweet Cheeks,

I'm sending you this post card from deep within Birth Prep Land.

It's a place where skies are perennially blue, and not just a ho-hum shade, but the stuff of Monet and Raphael's wildest imaginings.

Kind thoughts and gentle feelings towards yourself are all the rage here, and if you should stray off the path of the True Believers, a gentle nudge from an amniotic-soaked knee will quickly set you back on track.

I have written my birth plan. I have imbibed hypnotic CD's almost every night of my last trimester to open my mind and my body to the enormity and beauty of the birth experience awaiting me. I am yoga'd and trance-like. I am capable of inhaling vast quantities of Oxygen-sodden air in long, deep breaths. I am re-reading journals by women who, like me, don't just have blind faith that childbirth can be joyous and ecstatic, but have actual hard evidence. In my case, the birth of my son was the irrefutable proof I needed that this is what my body was put on earth to do.

Forget Advertising awards and Directorships. Sorry to dumb it down but I was born to procreate, and the Universe equipped me with every conceivable aid to do just that. If a chick like me who is always in her own head too much can step out of my way long enough to give birth peacefully and calmly, then trust me, Sweet Cheeks, anyone can do it.

I am tired of apologising for this fast-held belief. For talking in half tones about it at BBQ's where the horrors of childbirth flow so freely and easily from lip glossed mouths. I am way past pretending I didn't have the most amazing birth experience since the Big Bang. Like everything in my life, it didn't come without effort and commitment. I put in hours of work, I trained my brain and my body to believe without hesitation that such a thing was possible.

Am I scared? You bet ya, I'm not pretending to be a numb-nut Superwoman. I would be a robot if I wasn't feeling a tad nervous about expelling a giant rugby ball from a hole the size of a 50c piece. But I know how my body works, I trust how remarkable it is, and I've done it once before.

Maybe I'm a birth hippy because I had to fill my body with a million hormones to get pregnant in the first place. Because I had so many needles poked in my arm that I actually convinced myself I understood the concept of heroin addiction. I revolted and did a huge 180 degree turnaround when finally I got the chance to birth the way I wanted to. No medical mumbo jumbo or blindly accepting what the wise old doctors said for me.

And Sweet Cheeks, did I mention that I'm looking forward to a Take-Two that grabs the bull by the horns and runs wild with it with all the power and conviction I can muster from a million years of birthing warriors before me? Yes, I am actually genuinely excited about the impending prospect of childbirth.

Like I said, this ain't my first rodeo.

Today my husband and I booked our nanny (who is actually no longer our nanny since our little man started school but remains #1 on emergency speed dial on my crackberry, an honour not even my mother holds).

She took our 3 year old little treasure to the Zoo while we enjoyed some much needed, and if I'm to believe all I'm told, soon to be incredibly rare couple-time.

We will be a family of four anytime now (did I mention that my glorious out and proud belly is showing telltale signs of 'the drop'?...yep, baby looks set to bust out of amniotic heaven momentarily). I figured a half day of adult indulgence, not to mention proper conversation, might be a good idea before I become completely engrossed in the land of leaky boobs and badger eyes, otherwise known as 'my new love affair with Baby' (best not to neglect the love affair that got me Baby in the first place, if you see what I mean).

So we waved them adieu, a day of spontaneity and wondrous nothingness ahead of us, and then we turned to each other and giggled. What the hell do we do now, we found ourselves asking, spontaneity suddenly feeling a little too unplanned for our liking.

I had a few requests. No shopping malls and no traffic jams. I wanted an au naturale day of peace and calm, which was kind of ironic given I was tarted up to the nines in my figure hugging Charlie Brown maxi dress and a pair of orange floral wedges.

We had an amazing morning. A gentle stroll at Bondi beach, a saunter through a new Italian deli, and then lunch at one of our old local pre-kid haunts. We topped it off with a nap on a picnic blanket under a tree in the park, far enough away from human contact that the only sounds came from the randy swans in the nearby lake.

We had four heavenly hours before my waddling pregnant body called it a day and insisted on proper sleep on my new Egyptian cotton sheets. We talked about baby names, our Italian gap year plans (another blog for another day), buying a new house and how incredibly blessed and lucky we are. I felt deeply connected and at one in the zen-zone of impending birth with the man who is an astoundingly good birth supporter and A1* dad.

Mission accomplished.

And then we were home and our lifesaver nanny was off, and our 3 year old was awake and wanting to play The Pirate Game. At full tilt, as always of course. Normality comes crashing back in like a dinner guest you never invite but who always seems to turn up smiling at the front door.

So here I sit now in a park, watching my two pirates playing soccer. And I'm still struck by the parental body language of the playground. It is a curious mixture of resignation and relief. Slumped shoulders, arms hanging limply beside weary bodies and stifled yawns, with the odd tiny smile creeping in and a silent internal 'thank fuck he's entertained on the slide and not making me play three little pigs again'. The love is there, always lurking, but the relentlessness of the designated role of 'parent' is there too. Obsequious and never-ending.

I touch my belly and wonder for the umpteenth time how on earth I am  ever going to cope with two, and then smile at my own foolishness remembering that millions of mums have trod these steps before me, and even on the bad days, e-ve-ry-thing's gonna be alright.

Rockabye.