Week 38: still pregnant January 25, 2008

Yep. Still pregnant.

Week 37: oh, shit January 17, 2008

I am ginormous. Utterly ginormous.

This week I had to check the BBC’s pregnancy calendar to work out exactly how pregnant I was. That’s because my brain has turned completely to mush. Last night The Beloved was very excited to show me his new computer software that enables him to (literally) make beautiful music. I stared somewhat vacantly at the screen, muttered various words of encouragement and all I could really think about was returning to the loungeroom to continue playing MarioKart (look! bright colours! funny creatures! whee!).

As befitting a mammal of such large proportions, my capacity for movement has also slowed down considerably. We have just moved into a three-storey terrace and I have become very proficient at going up and down the stairs the minimum number of times possible. Stairs - they’re hard work, man. Seriously.

The baby’s room is now almost ready for the Wee Wriggler, due really at any time from here on in. We are still trying to decode the puzzle of the disassembled changing table, however. Still, the kid will have somewhere to sleep, and if we have to we can change nappies on the floor.

The Beloved and I started birth classes two weeks ago and they have proven interesting in some respects and quite horrifying in others. I have seen a pair of forceps. I do not want them near my body. The birthing pool, however, I baggsied on the first week. It’s even bigger than the bath in our house, which takes some doing, and if the midwives really will fill it with hot water and give me gas to make me high at the same time while I squeeze a rather large object through a relatively small hole, then, so be it. I can probably live with that.

You can say what you like about gender stereotypes fading into insignificance in this modern age but it all goes out the window when it comes to birthing classes. The midwife leading the class says things like ‘vagina’ and ‘anus’ and ‘10 centimetres dilation’ and the blokes sit there with this frozen expression on their faces, which basically translates as, ‘ohhh … shit … are they going to make me look down there?’. All the while the pregnant people sit there looking slightly tired but interested and clearly wondering when the proceedings would be arriving at the ’session break with chocolate biscuit’ part, and whether said midwife would notice any sly reading of trash mags left on nearby tables.

Yesterday I went into a very large chain store to purchase washable nappies. I’ve talked before on this site about how the maths and the ethics don’t add up for disposables, but when you have £200 in your hand one minute and then a recyclable bag laden with a few bits of absorbent cotton and Velcro the next but minus the cashola you do begin to question your sanity and wonder whether one person’s preference not to add to landfill is really worth it. Interestingly, I did not question my sanity when I dropped £180 on a sexy iPod a few months back before I got pregnant. Priorities, huh? I ended up exchanging a large wad of cash for these particular nappies that are made of bamboo fibre. They are almost guaranteed to give my kid that cute overly big and round baby bum. As well as do all the other things, you know, like not leak poo all over the bedding.

Life currently feels a bit like we are heading towards a (possibly pleasant and vastly rewarding) nuclear meltdown. We are in the process of battening down hatches, in preparation for the arrival of the Wee Disco Dancer, which involves doing truckloads of life administration - organising direct debits for bill paying, buying bits of furniture, practising putting up the pram without losing my temper (harder than you think!!) - and making sure we have everything as ready as we can for said meltdown.

Now the nappies are in, I’m doing the last of the gazillion loads of washing of all the baby’s stuff, and buying the last few bits of things I think I might need before getting around to packing my labour bag and choosing the sproglet’s very first outfit in which it will travel home. And, of course, battening down of hatches involves watching lots of Buffy and Angel and eating very nice reduced price desserts from Waitrose, conveniently located within waddling distance of my house.

It’s weird to think that the next time I write I might very well be a parent. I think that’s about as big a life change as you can get, other than a sex change.

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.

Weeks 31-33: the confinement December 18, 2007

Well, I’m finally on maternity leave. It’s a very weird feeling, knowing that I have voluntarily left a good job to have a baby, and before the baby is born I get to hang out on the couch and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer AND get paid for the privilege. Not a bad deal, once my hack agency sorts out my lost maternity certificates and actually PAYS ME.

Now I am officially confined, as the Brits so love to call their pregnant women, I am coming up with new and inventive ways to be the best possible hausfrau for The Beloved, what with him being the main provider of income and all. Today’s agenda has followed thus:

8.30am: Make The Beloved sandwiches. Admittedly this is not the first time I’ve made him food, but quite probably the first time I’ve ever actually voluntarily arisen before I needed to and made food for him that hasn’t involved also making food for myself and subsequently eating it. Retire to bed. Contemplate nap. Read graphic novel instead.

9.30am: Arise. Officially. Decide that as an act of defiance I will not get out of my pyjamas all day. Partake of breakfast; check blogs; consider taking constitutional before lunch. Decide instead to do some godamn housework instead of sitting around on my arse all day. Such housework, today, has consisted of:

• Yet another bloody load of washing. How can two people go through so many clothes? I ask this because since I have become the size of a small beached whale, I have found my acceptable-in-public wardrobe reduced to about two items and a heap of underpants. Yet the washing pile ever-remains.
• The dishes. Our dishwasher (the mechanical one) has kicked the bucket, so we have resorted to using old technology for cleaning dishes. Ie, the hands of a hausfrau. Our kitchen is one of those in which if any single item looks remotely out of place, or if a single dirty dish is placed within eyesight, the entire kitchen looks as though it has been heavily over-populated by first year university students. Don’t start with me, I used to be one. I know.
• Tidying of the bedroom. Honestly, you’d think first year university students had taken over our entire flat. Why does it still seem, as my late 30s gallop toward me, that the floor or a chair is an infinitely better place to store your clothes than the wardrobe? Why is that?
• Started packing for our imminent move to a slightly smaller town in just under two weeks. I have so far in one day managed to pack an entire wardrobe’s worth of stuff (linens, baby clothes, fragiles), PLUS about 1/3 of our CD collection, PLUS emptied and boxed up our bathroom cabinets (X 2).

12.30pm: Time for lunch, and a spot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

12.45pm: Take nap on couch mid-Buffy.

4pm: Awake and consider more housework. Decide on fruitcake and hot chocolate instead.

4.30pm: Begin Mario Kart marathon.

And so the days continue.

While I could deffo get used to this lounging about lark, the Protestant working class in me does harbour some shreds of guilt about how I’m sitting about not really doing much other than breathing, eating and taking in popular culture. Then the modern, university-educated part of me kicks in and boots the Protestant over the head, because hell, growing limbs and brains and eyelashes and kidneys is damn exhausting business, and besides which, I’ve worked a demanding, full-time job that includes a 1.5 hour commute every bloody day for pretty much every day of this pregnancy until yesterday, so fuck, I’VE EARNED THE RIGHT TO WATCH BUFFY ON THE COUCH AND EAT FRUIT CAKE IN MY JIM-JAMS.

And at least while I am at home relaxing I am in a much better position to restrain myself from punching strangers in the face who insist on gazing in some kind of weird stranger-awe at my belly and asking in supposed jest, WOW, ARE THERE TWINS IN THERE?? Instead of hi, how are you?

No, I’m just fucking big, my kid is big, and thanks for reminding me. Like I’m not already becoming vaguely nervous about pushing something THAT big out of something THAT small.

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?

Weeks 22-25: the house guest October 28, 2007

While I am officially down with the being pregnant concept now, I am still yet to completely be jiggy with the idea of welcoming a new person into our home in three short months.

When I think about the baby, I am fine thinking about where it is now, kicking away, fine thinking about giving birth (well, kinda) but it’s the after the birth thing that’s still hard to conceptualise.

The closest I can come is thinking of the baby as a new house guest. It’s not someone we already know, really, more like hearing about a distant long-lost relative coming to stay who we’ve never met before, but know a bit about. We can make some guesses about what kind of clothes and bedding to get ready, how our lives might change in terms of routine, but that’s about it.

It’s hard to explain. There’s just so much mystery, in many ways, mostly because The Beloved and I are so damn curious to meet the little thing, feeling it kick in my tummy, and have spent many hours wondering whose fingers it will get, whether it will have the two little curls of skin behind its ears like its father, hate being woken up, just like its mother … who knows. Will it get my nose?

We have also been talking a lot about how to set boundaries, and what we might do in certain circumstances. Should it get pocket money (yes, for doing extra chores over and above the ones we all get to do as part of the house)? What about clothes and appearance (happy to support whatever fashion or appearance it chooses, even if that means supporting it through gritted teeth)?

I have been reading Gina Ford’s The New Contented Little Baby Book, the first I’ve come across that does away with waffle and says, right. Week 1, when you get home from the hospital, 7am, get the kid up. She lays out hour by hour what needs to happen to ensure the kid gets fed, watered and put to sleep regularly, and all with parents’ sanity in mind. It has been a godsend for my peace of mind. The last thing I think either The Beloved or myself would want is a baby that needs constant rocking to be put to sleep, up all bloody night and is a fussy boob juice drinker. At least, so it seems, we are able to minimise these fussy elements and get things into a routine fairly easily and quickly.

Of course, babies don’t read the manuals. So we shall have to see. Even if the CLB routine doesn’t work at first, we have it as a basis for working towards.

I have had some great ideas for baby clothes, as I have finally given up looking for anything remotely different or interesting at a reasonable price in any of the stores here.

I was in London last weekend with the scrumptious MellaStella, and as we wandered around Portobello Road I came across some really seriously cute baby clothes: all bright colours, each different … each costing £8-£20 a pop. Now, these are items a baby will grow out of in about two weeks, so who-ever was making them was clearly on a winner.

Some of the clothes would be quite easy to copy, I reckon - they were just tie-dyed in really bright colours. So that is my first project. I only need a couple of buckets, rubber bands, baby-safe clothing dye and several different sizes of baby clothes and we’re away.

I figure it’s a project I can take on once we’ve moved after Christmas and I’ve stopped paid work for a while and I’m sure I’ll be busy just getting nesty and ready for baby.

Some of the other baby clothes were stencilled with some very cool graff art and cultural stencils that I think would also look really cute - again I can just buy some baby-friendly fabric paint, some acetate and get cracking.

It can’t be that hard to copy a Sex Pistols album cover in size miniature, can it?

Weeks 22-24: disco dancing October 11, 2007

My little disco dancer,

Your disco dancing is verrry cute. In the past few days your father has been able to feel you dancing away in there when he puts his hand on my belly.

We had our scan the other day, only two weeks or so after we were meant to, only because your mother currently boasts a butter brain, and got the days confused. Regardless, the scan went well, you have ten fingers, ten toes, a kind of freaky looking but totally normal spine but whether you have a willy or girl bits? That’s something we’re going to have to wait to find out. We chose to look away, although your father confessed later that he nearly peeked.

Your grandmother is here from Australia, and she brought with her about half the nation’s fitted nappy supplies, at least five sheep’s worth of knitted garments, some of which I’m sure will only fit you for about a week, some badly needed Bonds boyleg undies for your mother and - !praises be! - Australian chocolate.

We also toured France for about two weeks, so we can officially say that you’ve technically swum in the Mediterranean.

While I’ve been enjoying your wee dancing shenanigans, I’ve definitely not been enjoying the EXTREMELY FUCKING AGONISING leg cramps that have woken me up over the past few nights. I used to suffer from foot cramps when I swam a lot as a young kipper, but those cramps were nothing like these.

Nothing much else to report at the moment. My tiredness comes and goes, as does my energy; I think I am in the nice middle period of not being too uncomfortable physically and getting excited about meeting you and beginning my parenting life.

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.

Weeks 17-18: the quickening September 18, 2007

Dear sprog,

I GET IT. YOU’RE IN THERE.

Love, me.