The sleep monster, junior + senior March 27, 2008

Unsurprisingly, Number One Son has been having sleep troubles. And, also not surprisingly for a newborn baby, he’s taken to crying as if it’s a national sport.

After spending 10 months in a nice, warm dark place with meals on tap, being rocked gently to sleep when one feels like it, I’m not surprised, really, but what I am is really fucking exhausted. Beyond exhausted, actually.

Number One Son has fooled us on a couple of occasions wherein he’s slept for five hours straight (five fucking hours! The luxury of it!).

But more often, nights follow this sequence:

11pm: feed Number One Son. Burp Number One Son thoroughly, knowing that if not burped thoroughly, Number One Son will wake up about 10 minutes after going to sleep. Get Number One Son to sleep.

2-3am: Number One Son awakes for night feeding. Repeat burping procedure. Gently nudge son towards sleep.

3.30am: Son awakes again. Repeat nudging procedure.

4.15am: Son awake. Repeat nudging procedure again, praying for divine intervention, or for social services to magically step in and work some sleeping mojo.

5am: Repeat.

5.45am: Feed son. Burp son. Nudge son towards sleep.

6.15am: Son, WHY ARE YOU AWAKE AGAIN?

And then it’s daylight and The Beloved is away to work and I am alone in the house with a son who will not sleep for any length of time but seems quite happy to cry non-stop until ten minutes before his father gets home.

Until yesterday we have been getting Nelson to sleep by comforting him on either of our chests, until we fall asleep. But according to every single expert this is dangerous practice that will come back to haunt us in times to come. Son needs to learn to fall asleep in his own bed, by himself.

So last night we read over ‘The Baby Whisperer’, by Tracey Hogg, in an effort to try and get this kid to sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time in his own bed, by himself.

Step one was to swaddle the kid, then do this shush-patting business, then stick the kid in bed, and continue to shush-pat as required, etc etc until kid falls asleep.

I thought we were on a winner, I really did. And we may yet be, but at the moment it feels like I’m out in some very cold and lonely wilderness with no map, no guides and no end in sight.

Son slept for about four hours (oh, thank goodness! I thought, rashly giving thanks for a decent block of sleep that SURELY was about to be followed up with another, thanks to this marvellous swaddling-shushing-patting procedure) then after feeding at 2.45am, awoke at 3.30am, 4.20am, 5am and 5.30am, by which time I was gritting my teeth with frustration and probably not behaving in a very soothing manner. Bless The Beloved, who took over and let me sleep from 6-7.30am. Wow. A whole, uninterrupted hour and a half.

“There you go,” he said, just before departing for work. “Son is in basket, relaxed but not sleepy.”

“Relaxed” lasted about two minutes after Number One Son heard his father leave the building, and has since made his displeasure known by yowling pretty much constantly.

Listening to your baby cry can be soul-destroying. Knowing that you’ve tried everything to get it to stop, and it doesn’t stop, makes you want to slit your wrists, but not before shouting “JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” at the kid, which is about as effective as yelling “KICK A FUCKING GOAL, YOU DIMWIT!” to Richmond’s Matty Richardson, standing ten metres directly in front.

And then you sit on the couch and burst into self-pitying tears yourself, as loudly as the kid, there you are together, crying on the couch, one soggy, adult mess and one arched back, red-faced junior who can’t tell you what’s wrong so you can fix it.

These are the bits the parenting books do not tell you about: some parts of motherhood really are quite shit.

And often one shit bit will pile on top of another, until you get six or seven shitty bits cascading over each other until all you can do is fall over in a heap and cry. Or get on the lash. Or both.

For example, this morning: kid won’t sleep, try feeding, kid throws up, continues wailing, change clothes, kid throws up again, starts crying again, change nappy, kid wees all over you, continues crying, leave the house for mother & baby group, forget Bag of Baby Stuff, return home to get Stuff, re-leave house for group, get to group only to discover it’s not on this week, which upsets you more than you anticipated, because you were looking forward to talking to some other mums with young babies, even if they’re strangers at least you’d be out of the house and with some company, decide instead to attend baby-friendly cafe for a cup of tea, wait in queue, get to front of queue, person in front of you takes last available seat, which upsets you profoundly as it means you have nowhere to sit and must return home to four walls and screaming child as it is raining outside and not a good time for a walk, besides which, you don’t want a walk, you want the kid to shut the fuck up, immediately, or you will go insane, and you’re thirsting for a nice cup of tea and a hug from a friendly face who will say “you poor thing, here, have some chocolate”, which won’t happen because you don’t really know anyone in the town where you live, so home it is, and you really do feel ready to disown your child, because you are clearly so utterly incapable of looking after him yourself and you are a total, useless failure at this parenting gig.

That’s the thing about sleep deprivation. It sneaks up on you in a multitude of ways, and it’s not like where you’ve had too much to drink and next door’s party wakes you up a few times in the night. It’s sometimes every 15 minutes, sometimes every 45, sometimes it might be every four hours, so the second you close your eyes there’s this immediate pressure to soak up the available seconds with sleep ASAP, while simultaneously listening out for Number One Son stirring to the point of being awake again.

And when you’ve had even two hours sleep, and then you’re being woken every hour or 45 minutes or whatever, I cannot really describe how dizzy with sleep deprivation you become. Every last fibre of your body is dragged kicking and screaming into being awake, because you can’t just ignore what’s waking you up. It must be attended to. You stagger awake and to the baby and seriously resent what it’s doing to your own sleep schedule, and worse than that, you get really, really jealous of your partner, who snoozes away as per your agreement, and you know that you’ve both chosen to take on these particular roles, but it doesn’t stop you being extremely fucking jealous of the fact that they are asleep and you are most definitely not.

On top of that is the knowledge that it will be months before you will get proper sleep again. Number One Son is still waking for night feeds and probably will do so for some time yet, a responsibility that is yours.

People urge you to sleep when the baby sleeps but two things: one, I can’t switch my sleep on and off that easily; and two, sometimes it’s more torturous to have an hour sleep while Junior naps than it is to just stay awake and get shit done.

They don’t tell you that in those ‘What to expect’ books, do they?

The aftermath March 22, 2008

The danger of expectations …

What I was expecting, part 1:

A earth mothery, waterbirth with minimal pain relief, definitely no epidurals or surgery, lasting under 24 hours.

What I got, part 1:

A 36 hour labour that never progressed past 4 centimetre dilation, a membrane sweep, three applications of cervix-softening gel, artificial rupture of my membranes, followed by 10 hours of fake oxytocin through an IV, and an epidural, all of which were followed by an emergency caesarian, during which I suffered a massive panic attack and lost over a litre of blood.

What I was expecting, part 2:

To breastfeed until the cows came home, or at least until Number One Son didn’t want the bosom any longer. That breastfeeding would be a deeply bonding and satisfying experience for both parties.

What I got, part 2 (a):

I hated breastfeeding. Excruciating pain in both bosoms throughout. One nipple suffered deep bruising from where The Wee Champ was incorrectly attached directly after birth; the other bore a crack the length of it that meant feeding was like having someone poke white hot sewing needles directly into said bosom repeatedly.

What I got, part 2 (b):

An unhappy baby that was never fully satisfied at any feed and the guilts that I wasn’t nourishing my child well enough; and that I should be happier and more proficient at breastfeeding.

What I expected, part 3:

Was to never have the need to use formula or bottles, because there was plenty of good food on tap for Number One Son.

What I got, part 3:

Industrial sized box of organic baby formula, several bottles and a steam steriliser now in regular use for Nelson. Result: a happy, satisfied baby and a more relaxed me with the freedom to now get back on the sauce. IT TAKES THE EDGES OFF.

What I expected: part 4:

That my kidlet would never, ever use a dummy.

What I got, part 4:

A dummy. Works a treat, and has saved our sanity on several occasions. JUDGE YE NOT.

What I expected: part 5:

Kidlet would sleep in his own cot, in his own room, in decent 3-4 hour blocks, from day one.

What I got, part 5:

A baby that has yet to sleep in his own room and occasionally spends nights sleeping in 45 minute chunks.

What I expected: part 6:

That I’d be GIFUCKENNORMOUS for months after the birth and that I’d never fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes again.

What I am got, part 6:

My favourite pre-England jeans a l m o s t do up, already! And yesterday I tried some new jeans on and managed to fit into a size 14. For someone who has spent the past nine months feeling like a very grey, dull heffalump, this (usually) superficial experience transcended ordinary joy. I’ll be a yummy mummy yet!

A letter to Nelson: month 1 March 16, 2008

Dear son,

This Wednesday you turn a month old, a fact that amazes me given that I’ve read *this* many manuals about parenting, but I am still hopeless inept at the job. I am getting much better as the days pass, however, at blaming my farts on you.

In the past month we have weathered many storms already, mostly involving your not sleeping, and not fully appreciating that when you arch your back a certain way you are not performing a complicated yoga pose but in fact have wind, but sometimes it means you are showing off how strong your neck and back muscles are, and sometimes it means wind AND showing off, and then you go and do something cute and a switch gets triggered in our brains and somehow we think your weeing all over your father is cute.

One of your favourite things to do at the moment is to lie on your back on the bathroom floor, and stare at god only knows what, and listen to the water pump in the cupboard bringing the blessed relief of hot water to your poor mother’s bosoms. And then throw in a wee vomit on the carpet for good measure.

Another of your favourite things to do is not sleep, which makes me wonder where those experts who say babies sleep 16 hours a day get their babies from. Because they sure didn’t take you into account. A little while ago you spent two nights sleeping in 45 minute chunks, and then taking your naps during the day like a damn angel. After the first night I assumed that you would tire yourself out by the second, but no, you were impatient to set the world record for minimum number of minutes spent fooling parents into thinking you were asleep, and by gee by jingo did you surpass that record. GUINNESS HAS BEEN CALLING.

I now understand why sleep deprivation is used as a method of torture because you have proven that you are way, way better than George Bush in this respect. In fact, I wouldn’t even vote for you in case you made it part of the constitution. The thing about you is that once you wake up and realise that there’s no bosom in your mouth, which means you’re not eating, you are determined to let the world know about it so someone will come along and fix it for you. Because hey, the squeaky wheel gets the oil, right?

Your father and I have discovered a method that slides you towards sleep without you actually thinking that you’re sliding towards sleep, because according to you, if you’re sleeping you’re not eating, and that’s a really tragic state of affairs, one that everyone needs to know about, even the neighbours we haven’t met yet in the next street.

You like to lie on your dad’s chest because that’s male bonding time and you like to lie on my chest because there’s bosoms involved, and if there’s bosoms involved then there is even a slight chance more food will pass your lips. The other night as I tried to convince you that 3am wasn’t the ideal time to be staring at my face or discussing life and the universe, you dropped your head between my bosoms and began to do that cute, ‘I’m really comfortable, so comfortable I might be heading towards that S word’ snuffle, and I began to pat your back. And I thought to myself, take advantage of this, kid, because the next time you’re face down between some female’s tits and she’s rubbing your back you’re probably going to have to pay for it and you might just get arrested.

But it’s hard to convey that to a 4-week-old baby, so I’ll just write about it here and you can read it later.

This month you and I have been to our first mother and baby group. You are the biggest kid there, and that takes some doing, given one of the kids is nearly eight months old. We turned up a little early, me nearly crying for the effort of getting out of the house, dressed in a puke-covered hoodie and you in a harness on my chest with a muslin square over your head to protect you from the rain. The other mothers showed up immaculately dressed, with make-up on (MAKE UP! HOW DO THEY *DO* THAT?) with their kids in new prams with rain covers.

As we all sat there pretending not to eye up each other’s children, and comparing everyone else’s kid to our own, one of the mothers began to change her kid’s nappy. I glanced over and I’m proud to say this, son, you have WAY bigger balls than that 4-month-old Charlie. WAY bigger.

In the past week your constant desire for food has taken its toll on my bosoms, so much so that we are now in the process of making you a formula-fed baby, something that, weirdly, bothers you much less than when you were breastfed, but has the breastfeeding police up-in-arms because I haven’t tried hard enough to keep you latched to my bosoms for 27 hours a day. In your first two weeks of life it felt like you were constantly at my chest looking to suck my bosoms dry. You are some optimist because you also tried suckling your father’s nose, arm and chest, as well as your hands and - let’s face it - virtually anything that passed within ten millimetres of your mouth. And while the current size of my bazoombas pleases both you and your father for different reasons my current thinking is that no one is allowed near them for the next 25 years.

You have been weighed three times now since you were born at 9lbs 12oz. A week later you were 10lbs 2oz, then five days after that you were 10lbs 9oz, and the other day at the baby clinic the weirdo nursery nurse weighed you in at 100kgs. Not really, it was actually 11lbs 2oz, but it means that you are putting on weight faster than average (one ounce per day), which in my book makes you ADVANCED. And heavier than that 6-month-old Archie from group. GET IN.

Although you are officially putting on weight, we are at a loss as to where you put it. Because you are definitely not fat - you’re long limbed and dare I say it, BIG BONED.

You have my big man hands and ballerina feet, just like I thought you would, and your dad’s cute nose and cheeks and face, and we’re not sure who to blame the flat arse on just yet. But probably me, because kids like to blame their mothers for all kinds of stuff, right, so why not start now?

Before you were born other parents warned us that kids grow up really fast and suddenly we’ll turn around and we’ll be embarrassing you at your 21st birthday with nudie pictures of you taking your first bath. It is really only in the past week that I have come to appreciate these words of advice. Each day I marvel at how your face changes shape, how you are able to recognise sounds more easily and how you are coming to smile when your dad or I come into a room. And at your incredible capacity to do a giant shit in a nappy I’ve *just* changed.

You may not yet be able to talk, my chubby cheeked, adorable son, but already I have learned so much from you, mostly about how difficult it is to put someone else first, all the time, after a lifetime of tending only to numero uno and enjoying the luxury of eight or nine hours uninterrupted sleep every night. I have your dad to thank for showing me the way, and you to thank for rewarding me with a completely new level of love that I never really knew existed or wanted to know about until now. You somehow have used a key to open up my heart even further than your father did when I met him all those years ago, and bring me peace.

One of the cute things you like to do is sit up and stare at me, something that on occasion alarms me because all manner of expressions cross your face as you’re staring. The other morning as you stared and I wondered how I could manage to turn the staring competition into a nap, or at least try and get some sleep sitting up with my eyes open, you raised one eyebrow quizzically at me and viewed me with suspicion, as if to say, ‘Hey … you were here yesterday. Are you my mother?’

Yes son, I am.

Love,

Mum.

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.

Week … uh … I forget January 3, 2008

Posting may be a little sporadic until we’ve got the internerd set up properly in the new hoose. Rest assured said hoose is warm, dry, full of lovely light and feels like home.

I’m mighty, mighty glad to be finished work. Yesterday I met a friend for lunch and wandered around Leeds city centre (or at least a very small portion of it), then fell into a four hour nap when I finally got home.

I continue to haus-frau to the best of my abilities, which can sometimes be tough when there’s Buffy to watch, cake to eat, you can’t bend over to pick anything up and a trip up the stairs is a major mission.

But I soldier on.

More soon, hopefully.

Week 30: the nest December 1, 2007

Dear mini-me,

I am busting a gut to get ready for your imminent arrival. Well, when I say ‘imminent’, what I actually mean is ‘arrival in ten weeks or thereabouts’.

Your father and I have found a proper, growed up house for us to live in, complete with a back garden and a bathtub the size of a large park pond. I fully intend to spend whatever time I’m not napping or nesting in that bath, even once you arrive.

Your movements are becoming more pronounced and it’s hard for me not to think that you’re conspiring against me, because every time I stop still, even if it’s just in a supermarket queue, you ark up in there and give me an elbow in the liver or a head butt against the bladder just to let me know that hey, you might only be 1.25kgs, but you got the power, yunno? When’s a kid gonna stand up for its right to sleep if not starting in the womb?

Yeah. I know.

So as my third and final trimester trickles towards its inevitable end (and result), your presence down there is becoming more keenly felt than ever before. I can tell which bit of you is a foot, and where your head is. And watching you ripple the surface of my great white expansive belly is akin to watching a homemade version of The Exorcist. But in a nice way.

Clothes and gifts continue to pour in from relatives and friends. Tomorrow I get to visit The Great Swede By The Motorway and pick out a few things like feeding chairs and bathmats and £1 bargains I doubt I’ll need but will buy anyway.

Time for a nap.

Love, mum.

Weeks 26-30: the text book November 25, 2007

Awesome, awesome tiredness: tick. It’s not even like it’s that tiredness you get after one too many glasses of wine and one too few hours of sleep before a workday kind of tiredness. It just pervades everything, not least of all my mind. Sleep is becoming a rare treat: I think last night I got up to wee five times. The last two times I didn’t even get back to sleep. So yeah. Great training there.

Irrational worries about the baby: will it be DEFORMED when it comes out? What if I drop it? The other day I felt a funny, regular kind of pulsing deep down womb-way. For a few minutes I worried myself sick that somehow the baby’s heart and seeped out the side of its ribcage and was beating outside of its body. Then I realised that the beat was too slow and was probably just hiccups (later confirmed by my GP, who said that babies often gorge themselves on amniotic fluid and get indigestion, thus the hiccups).

Reflux/heartburn/indigestion (sans hiccups): Jesus Christ. I never thought that one of my favourite activities - burping - would turn into such a harbinger of pain and suffering. The other night I slept sleeping up because the five Rennies and entire tub of Yeo Valley yoghurt did jack shit in my digestive system. I believe I may have dozed lightly between two and three am. I find it gets much, much worse when I’m hungry, and interestingly, when I go to yoga. Yoga is another story.

Uncomfortableness: I got this one in spades. No longer can I sit still for hours working on my photography or reading the paper. Every five seconds I think I’ve found The Spot and then two seconds later I change my mind.

Restless legs: Relates very strongly to the uncomfortableness. My legs - especially when I’m lying down - are never, ever still. They are either thinking about moving around or moving just enough to narrowly avoid leg cramps.

Rampant appetite, diminishing stomach, ever-extending belly: Increasing, decreasing, increasing, in that order. I am perpetually hungry and can often be seen close to snatching food from The Beloved’s hand. It takes about two mouthfuls of anything to make me full (and give me indigestion, if those two mouthfuls have even looked at the spice cabinet), and each day I wake up, look at my belly and think … ‘How much bigger can this thing possibly get?’

Random moments of crying: At Asda last Saturday the cashier made me cry by asking me if I was having twins. It took about two seconds for me to sob out that no, it was just one in there, and yes, I am REALLY FUCKING FAT, OK?

Week 19: zzz September 18, 2007

I have reached a new low.

All the books tell you that the second trimester is when you glow (you sweat), your energy levels return to (somewhat) normal, you’re feeling great, blah, blah, fucking blah. I would like to meet these women, these women who glow with heavenly inward saintitudiness about their state of pregnancy and who haven’t stacked on any weight and still iron their sheets.

1. For about 10 days now I’ve been waking up anywhere between 2am and 4am and been completely unable to get back to sleep. I’ve tried every technique I know, all the while listening to The Beloved snuffle away deep in his slumber, of which I am deeply, deeply jealous and resentful. I just lie there, mind a-wandering, various earworms running constant loops through my head (Nick Cave’s “I Let Love In” is currently on fairly high rotation). The first few times this odd awakening occurred I became increasingly frustrated, as, let’s face it, nothing makes mama more grumpy than a lack of sleep. Now I have come to peace with the fact that this is APPARENTLY my body training me for night-time feeds, and given the size of this child already, I suppose I’d better get used to being awake and stone cold sober in every respect in the dark of night.

2. During one of my recent nocturnal ramblings, I stubbed my toe on the bottom edge of the couch and broke it. I have broken my toes before (attempting a Paula Abdul dance manouvre at age 14, I seem to recall) and they hurt. And the only thing that can be done is strapping, so hobble on I must. And hobble is the operative word because …

3. I have damaged my lower back somehow, either that or the kid has jammed its elbow into the back end of my cocyx, but whichever, BECAUSE I HURT. Sitting for too long, standing for too long, lying down for too long … it’s all the same. Nasty twinges that make me cry out in pain and surprise when I get up and especially when I bend over or bear weight on my right side. This has effectively sidelined me from the workforce, which isn’t great, but the fact of the matter is I can’t actually sit in a chair for longer than ten minutes without significant pain. Hot water bottles, ice packs, anti-inflammatories - nothing has made a speck of fucking difference to my world of pain. This situation is very frustrating as well as painful because it seems that there is nothing much I can do.

This is a classic example of not appreciating what you have until you don’t have it any more. My back has never been great but it’s got me through all kinds of motions, as it were, and now that I can’t use it properly I’d really like to.

In spite of - or perhaps because of - my back pain, I’ve been attending my local expectant mothers yoga class of a Thursday evening. The exercises are very gentle, and it has been excellent to meet some other local pregnant people and seasoned mothers heading into their second or third pregnancy. Now, I’m all for doing exercise and bumping up my pevlic floor muscles, but I’m not so much into the hugging my belly and singing to my unborn child. I’ll just close my eyes and sway a little, thanks, and take the odd peek here and there to check if anyone else is uncomfortable about the procession as I am.

We have our 20 week scan this Thursday and I am under strict instructions from The Mothership to get her a photo or two. These images are surprisingly cheap here (at least something in this country is cheap!!) - only a couple of pounds per image, so I think I’ll stock up on some for all the expectant grandmas and grandpas and possibly for the special aunties and uncles as well.

The Mothership lands on Friday night and Saturday we pack up to go to the south of France for an extremely well-earned two week holiday, but not before I insist that my mother hands over to me my long, long list of items she Must Bring From Australia As They Can’t Be Got Elsewhere. And yes, I know there’s the bloody internet but it’s more fun when you get these items as presents.

1. Bonds boyleg undies. M&S undies don’t cut it on an arse like mine.

2. Twisties, Burger Rings, and Samboy Barbecue chips. Oh! The sheer delicious cheesy taste of original flavour Twisties!!

3. Violet Crumble, Cherry Ripe, Kingston and Tic Toc biscuits.

4. The biggest jar of Vegemite she can get her hands on (they only sell the teeny-teeny jars up here, and I go through one of those a fortnight).

5. As many cloth nappies with velcro tabs that she can fit in her suitcase without going (too far) over her weight limit. At only $6.75 a piece I’ve suggested she should load up and we can just buy her all Mothership-type clothes she needs once she gets here.

So, after I’ve scoffed everything, the three of us will sight the white cliffs of Dover, be visiting a small town on the way called Arras, where my great-grandfather is buried; driving over the latest brightest shiniest and longest suspension bridge in the world; taking a day trip to Barcelona and visiting a place called Carcassonne, home of my favourite nerdy game called, unsurprisingly, Carcassonne.

If I’m not back posting by Friday this week, assume all has gone well and we are tramping gaily all over the sensibilities of the French and having a grand old time.