Week 41.5: V Day February 16, 2008

V-Day to me usually means rolling out the usual answers to questions about whether The Beloved and I actually give a shit about a day nominated by a card company to make them more money than usual.

This year, V-Day took on a different meaning altogether. This year it became VAGINA DAY, and forever shall be known as such, not least of all because if there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s a multinational corporation telling me when to tell someone I love them, and calling their nominated day VAGINA DAY is my little way of subverting yet another dominant stereotype but also my charming Australian way of shocking these slightly repressed British by using the word VAGINA on a day commonly associated with wee tiny cherubs and misty lighting. VAGINA DAY is now also known as that day where the midwife stuck two fingers up my jacksie to try and get El Laidbacko in there to shake a tail feather and actually come on out and deign to meet us sometime this century.

And so it was on a nippy day in a valley somewhere in the north of England, we waddled along to said V-Day appointment, cracking jokes about how it was time to start asking for refunds on this whole kid idea, then being distracted (me) by the shiny trash mags in the waiting room.

The procedure by which the midwife does indeed and literally stick two fingers up my jacksie is more professionally known as a ‘membrane sweep’ and just before she gloved up to do it she warned us that there was only a 50 per cent chance it would work, assuming the sproglet’s head was far enough down the downstairs department to complete the procedure in the first place.

The head was not. The midwife seemed indifferent to this fact. The midwife indicated that just having some traffic up that way might trigger labour anyway. The Beloved and I knew differently, we knew differently because this kid is never coming out and I am on the way to holding the world record for Longest Gestational Period of a Human Ever in the Universe.

So, in an effort to prevent me from holding my first ever world record, we are due at the hospital tomorrow, wherein another midwife will again stick two fingers up my jacksie and leave some labour-starting hormonal gel in there. And if that doesn’t work, they try it again, and then if it STILL doesn’t work, they get out the crochet hook to break the waters.

You read correctly. I wish I was joking about that part.

All things considered, The Beloved and I will be parents, godammit, however much this kid doesn’t wish it so, by Tuesday at the absolute latest. Stay tuned.

Week 41: the waiting February 10, 2008

Feb 5. Official due date according to the dragon midwife (now sacked) and own calculations. Get very excited at one sign of vague stomach ache at about 3.30pm.

Feb 7. Official due date according to the dating scan done when sproglet was 12 weeks old. This is the date, according to Dr Budgie, fabulous GP, that health officials place the most belief in. No sign of child, other than still expanding belly.

Feb 8. Official due date according to the BBC’s parenting calendar. No sign of kid.

Feb 9. Take long walk trying to get kid’s head further down into pelvis. Begin gruesome task of tweaking one’s on nipples. Take advice from lady in fish and chip shop, who insists that a red-hot curry ought to do the trick. Consider buying pineapple to stick up one’s jacksie.

Feb 10. Official due date according to the hospital midwives who filled out my MATB1 certificate. Arse red-hot from remnants of last night’s curry extravaganza; boobs too sore to continue touching; pineapple idea nixed. NO FUCKING BABY.

Feb 11. Appointment with Dr Budgie. Realise at last appointment the previous week, neither patient nor doctor thought appointment would be necessary, but there you have it.

Feb 15. Official due date according to company paying me money for being pregnant until I go back to earn money for them. As company is utterly incompetent, pay no heed to this date but continue to give thanks for money plonked into bank while sitting on couch watching Buffy re-runs.

Feb 18. Overdue appointment at hospital. Seems like an eternity away but cannot come soon enough.

Week 40 and a bit: where are you? February 8, 2008

Dear pikelet,

We were just wondering, your parents, why you have decided to be late. given that your parents are consistent over-estimators when it comes to working out how long it takes to get anywhere, and have been late for a sum total of about ooh, three things in their whole lives, our question to you is this: WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?

I, your mother, cannot talk on the phone any more, which is like your father voluntarily electing to never again use computers (but the day that happens is the day the world will end or men will suddenly develop the ability to bear a child, so no fear there), because I know every fucking time that phone rings it’ll be yet another well meaning friend or relative agog with excitement about your ALLEGEDLY impending arrival, screaming ANY NEWS YET? ARE YOU A MUMMY YET? To which my response has been thus far, no, and no, but if you want news cop this: I’ve watched five episodes in a row of Jamie Oliver’s home cooking/gardening show, which is more TV than I’ve watched in one hit for over two years. Take that. Pow, ANY NEWS IN YOUR FACE.

I, your beloved mother, who has thus far in your short, short life sacrificed her career, wardrobe, healthy eating regime, and any appearance of being even vaguely interested in housework in order to being you life, limbs and eyelashes, believes that YOU OWE ME TO SHOW UP. I would really like that, today, if at all possible, and even if it means going through many many hours of pain in the downstairs area or several gigantic needles in my spine combined with a lovely bit of gut splicing. Or even both. I am that desperate to rejoin the human race, the race that stands about and walks at normal paces and doesn’t get winded by the mere thought of walking up a flight of stairs. I would like my bladder back; I would like to be able to sleep in more than one position, in fact, I’d dearly love to just get some damn sleep.

We think you are a bit of a joker, and we’re cool with that, except for all the Braxton Hicks contractions you keep tricking me with. I get two in a row and I’m heading to the phone to ring your father, to say, this is IT, come home now and lavish (even more) attention (than usual) upon me and ease my discomfort, and then you in your wisdom will think it’s a tiny bit cruel to lead an excitable woman on in such a way, and settle down to a good hour of hiccupping and then a bit of a kick and a long nap.

I have already worked out that this is my first lesson of parenting: I may very much want you to do something, but if you don’t want to do it when I want you to, you won’t. You’ll do it in your own sweet time, and all I can really do is guide you and cross my fingers.

So hurry up already.

Week 39: we’re ready as we’ll ever be February 1, 2008

Dear sproglet,

Aside from the remake of the Saturday Night Fever album cover position, and the head-banging to Nirvana position, neither of which bother your father or me particularly, even while in the womb, did you have to take up the posterior position as your preference, just before birth?

At least we can count our blessings: you’re not bum first, you’re not sideways, but you are … tricky. Doing things your own way, just like your parents, I figure. And we’re cool with that. But don’t let it remain unsaid that we won’t try and guide you into a position - like, say, ANTERIOR AND EASY THROUGH THE BIRTH CANAL, BUSTER - on your way out. Or is it the way in?

And unfortunately pretty much the only way I can guide you into a better position for birth is by crawling around on my hands and knees for as much of the day as possible and reading the paper on all fours. Let me say it now: THE THINGS I DO FOR YOU, CHILD. One website I read even suggested going up and down the stairs sideways and trying to sleep on my belly. That website was clearly written by someone who has never been pregnant before.

Anyway, whichever, but consider this your official eviction notice. Your new room is ready, resplendent with decorations home made by your parents and Aunty-Lady-Jane, we’ve packed the labour bag, and we are pretty much just hanging around out here while you hang around in there. Why not come out and join us?

After spending so long in denial about what it’s going to take to get you into this world (either many hours of pain in the downstairs area, including the infamous ring of fire; OR a fucken big needle or six in my spine and my guts cut open to find you) I have finally reached a point of just being completely tired of being the pregnant lady who can’t move further than from the couch to the fridge.

I have watched as much Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, 24 (Series 1) and re-runs of the Sopranos as I can handle. I’ve played way, way too many hours of MarioKart. I grew heartily tired months ago of those conversations with strangers wherein they inquire how long I have to go, then deign to impart to me their opinion about my weight, appearance and whether I’m still carrying to high to give birth. I have even stopped caring whether I punch those people in the face any more.

I’ve stopped answering the phone, partly because I cannot have any more Have you had it yet? NO! conversations, and partly because the phone is usually at the other end of the house to my grossly large beached whaleness. Very inconsiderate for a cordless phone.

I’ve even grown tired of the fucking computer. How am I even writing this? M i n d p o w e r. Get used to it, kid. By the time you understand what that means I’ll have eyes in the back of my head, too.

My pretend contractions are increasing with each passing day. This morning I had three strong ones in a row, the first of which woke me from my futile attempt at dozing while carrying a small elephant inside my female parts. Then your father made me coffee, I remembered there was the internet and bills to pay and then it was 2pm and I was still in my jimmy-jammies waiting for labour to start for real. Not unlike right now.

I was going to write a big long post about promises I want to make to you, and ones your father will smile and nod to, because he knows who the boss is of this family, the real boss, not the one who goes out to work Monday to Friday. In the outside world. With other people. Where they drink on Friday afternoons. And stand around. Bastards.

So these promises. I had a great post about it all lined up in my head at about 3am yesterday, and then forgot it, because my brain is still all mushy from the carrying a small elephant around in my girl parts for the past nine months thing, and then I thought about writing it again and realised that I just couldn’t be bothered.

And yet, here I am, so here goes, but first with the things I won’t be able to promise, and you’re just going to have to deal with that (send us the therapist’s bill):

1. I can’t promise that I’ll never spit on a tissue and then wipe crusty bits of food from your face right before you get out of the car to go to school. Sorry.

2. I can’t ever promise for definite that I won’t ever say: “You don’t have to like it, you just have to it eat it” or “I don’t say no for fun, you know” or “This hurts me more than it hurts you”. Again, sorry.

What I CAN promise, however:

1. Never to negate your feelings. What you feel is what you feel, and that goes for me and your pa as well. We will deal with our feelings and emotions about issues, events, problems, whatever - together, as a family. No drama (unless you really want some).

2. To take responsibility for my own feelings, and to separate them from your behaviour as best I can when you decide the loungeroom wall looks much better covered in glitter and non-removable crayon.

2. Never to put you down for what you are wearing, even if it means gritting my teeth from saying anything. Listen, the second you can dress yourself (which will be when, you’re three? four? help me out here), you’re doing your parents a big favour by removing a chore from their never-ending list. What are your thoughts on dusting, by the way?

3. Never to bust into your room without knocking. If your door’s closed, you cute little sulky teenager you, I’ll knock. I’m sure you’ll put me back in my place if I don’t.

4. To admit my mistakes, as a human, who is continuing to learn about life.

5. To accept when I am wrong.

6. To take you to Glastonbury one day. If you’ll have me.