It's only 9 months... but it feels like Maternity...

2008-05-31T10:26:00.001-07:00

Things I like about having a Spawn:

There's always someone to talk to in the supermarket or clothes shops. He's pretty good company, and his taste in clothes is really quite advanced
When he wants only me to hold him or cuddle him (admittedly not that often, but it's nice to be wanted)
When he learns how to do something new, or learns to avoid my tricks ("what's that over there?" [raspberry on neck] )
Smiling and laughing at our private jokes
Dressing him in cute/hilarious outfits
Toys and kids' books
Being able to chat to just about anyone now about "kids" - first class small talk - I was having a thoroughly engrossing chat about breastfeeding and soreness with a strapping 24-year old (male) soldier just the other day
The smell of top-to-toe wash
Remembering words to nursery rhymes and songs
His expressions when he's chatting away to me about something hugely interesting, like a potato masher
There's always something to photograph

Things I dislike about having a Spawn:

Screaming fits. Two small words, that encompass sooooo much stress, despair, confusion, resentment, embarrassment and general pissed-offness
Poo (I really hate poo)
Not being able to sleep later than 6.30am, ever - late nights are embarked upon at your own risk
Feeling helpless and sorry for him when he's ill
Guilt when having to hold him still for jabs
Seemingly never having a minute to read or catch up on my Sky+
The horrible suspicion that it is going to be years before the Husband and I can ever go for a proper evening out together - cinema, leisurely meal, late drinks...in our dreams
Having to delay all my dream holiday destinations until we retire, and book 'family-friendly' holidays now. The Maldives may well be underwater completely, and Fidel's not going to wait for me.
The only songs I find myself humming now are either nursery rhymes or childrens' television theme tunes (All together now - "Yes, my name is Iggle Piggle...")
Losing stuff. I now get apoplectic if I can't find a particular dummy, or a muslin, or something equally insignificant. I have no idea why this has happened to me

On the whole, I would say that I'd recommend it to anyone. But is that just because I'm on the sinking ship, and I'm bloody well going to make sure I take as many other buggers down with me as possible? What you have to ask yourself is, do you feel lucky?

2008-03-29T19:49:00.000-07:00

Well, would you believe it - Spawn made it to his first birthday! You have to hand it to him for overcoming what would appear to be insurmountable obstacles (namely, the parents he's got).

We didn't have a party for him - how ridiculous. He's one - he'll never remember anything about his first birthday. I saw it as my job to make it look like he had a fantastic time, take photos as evidence, but not to actually put myself through anything resembling that amount of hard work.
Therefore, we invited no guests but assumed that an assortment of grandparents would call in at various points to bring cards, and a gift would be nice but hey, no pressure.

Spawn woke up on his birthday with not the slightest inkling, at his normal time, and happily began his day as normal. We gave him a birthday card to open from us, and hurriedly removed it when he tried to chew a corner off and rip it in half. He had Weetabix for breakfast as normal, tolerated me taking some pictures of him, a quick pitstop while me and the Husband had a check-up at the dentist, had a nice nap, and we went off to Eureka. When everyone there sang Happy Birthday to him, he raised one eyebrow and glanced around at everyone with an "O.... K...." expression on his face. So far, his birthday was going extremely well.

We got back home, had lunch, and within half an hour we were full to bursting with grandparents. Spawn happily greeted them all. Then the Husband's niece called to say she was coming over to bring a card, but she'd locked herself out and had no car keys, and no-one was around to let her back in. I drove over and picked her, and her 2-year old son, up, saying she was welcome to wait at ours until her mum got back from work. We got back to our house, and it was time for Spawn to have presents. The 2 year old (Spawn's second cousin) pounced - he was ripping paper off before Spawn had the faintest idea what was going on. When he'd got the paper off, he snatched the toys away and began playing with them. Spawn saw most of his presents whiz past him without realising they were actually for him. Whenever we did manage to sneak a present to him, his cousin would stop playing with whatever he'd got, run over and snatch the new one off Spawn. When he tired of that, he decided to chase our cats , who jumped up out of his way. So he climbed up after them - onto windowsills, the sofa, then onto the arm of the sofa, then onto the back of the sofa - at which point I told him NO, grabbed him and put him back on the floor. He decided to push our clock off the fireplace, at which point the Husband told him NO, grabbed him and put him back on the floor. He then grabbed as much food as he could off the table and began stuffing it into his face, and running around the living room spraying the floor and furniture with crumbs (Spawn only eats at the table, in his highchair, so we've never had to contend with this level of mess). He snatched away Spawn's birthday balloon, and even managed to fit in a smack on Spawn's head when Spawn held onto an In The Night Garden book that his Nanny had just given him.

His mother, b-l-e-s-s her, might as well have not been there, for all the control she had over him and the notice he took of her. When they finally left, she walked out of the house without even saying goodbye. I called after her "Bye then," and she waved without even turning her head "Oh yeah, bye" and carried on walking out to the car. Easy to see where her son got his charming manners from.

My head was thumping, I was pissed off and feeling guilty that I hadn't been a welcoming enough hostess and hugely upset that this day was meant to have been Spawn's day, which is why we'd invited no other children, and it had ended up all about 2 Year Old. The Husband tried to cheer me up by saying that on the video he'd taken, he'd managed to avoid filming 2 Year Old as much as possible, and when he played it back to show me, we found that there was something wrong with the tape and the footage of Spawn's birthday cake with everyone singing Happy Birthday to him was all distorted and liney and virtually unwatchable.

Perfect - because for a moment there I'd been hoping that even after everything, his very first birthday, which you only get once and is special for that reason, the one which brought back so clearly all those memories and emotions of that incredible day for me, hadn't actually been ruined. But no - thanks very much Gods/Fate/Karma, just putting me straight there were you, in case I might actually have salvaged a smidge of happiness from it all? I do beg your pardon. What on earth was I thinking?

What do I take away from this though? Well, Spawn was perfectly happy for the best part of the day. He didn't know that his presents (and his day) were being monopolised by a badly-behaved grubby, spoilt toddler. He finished his birthday as he finishes every day, with an episode of In The Night Garden, a bath and a bottle, and went to sleep at his normal time in his normal sound manner, having had, in his opinion, a lovely day thank you very much. The Husband's niece is the one who gave us generous amounts of clothes when her son outgrew them all, and so I will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume it was a bad day for her. 2 Year Old is 2 years old, and knows no better if he's not told any differently, and Spawn may well be behaving the exact same way this time next year.

Yeah right. Over my dead body he will.

2008-03-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

I've suddenly remembered why I didn't write anything in between New Year and now - I was reeling from having to cope with both the Husband and Spawn being incredibly ill at the same time. This was in January.

The Husband came home from work one day, and I'd made him a sandwich for lunch. He didn't look too great (and hadn't been feeling 100% for a couple of days) but he said it was because he was tired and just wanted something to eat. So he commenced with the sandwich. Half way through it, he rushed to the loo and threw most of it back up. Now I'm not exactly Nigella, but I didn't think I could get a sandwich that wrong. And in fact I couldn't remember the last time he'd been sick where alcohol hadn't been involved. Spawn had been particularly ratty for most of that day, but I'd put it down to that great catch-all, 'Teething'. I asked the Husband if he thought Spawn looked a funny colour, but he just said it was probably because Spawn was tired. Anyhoo, I carried on, bathed and put Spawn to bed, and attended to dinner.

After about an hour, the Husband looked at Spawn on the baby monitor and said "Is he - I think he's - oh shit!" We raced up the stairs, to find poor Spawn spewing like a volcano. I'd got there first, just as everything fountained back down onto him - his entire head was covered, and the shock of it had frightened him so much he was gasping. I grabbed him, turned him over onto his front and just held him as he then carried on puking his poor little guts up onto his bed.

By now he was wailing, but I just stripped him out of his sleeping bag and whisked all his bedding off the cot. The Husband took him into the bathroom and tried to see where to start undressing him - the poor little sod's sleepsuit was covered. Luckily I hadn't emptied Spawn's bathwater out and it was still warm. "Just put him straight in," I said. In he went, clothes, nappy and all. As I got everything off him and began rinsing him, the Husband sank down onto the floor in the hallway. Running up the stairs had knocked him for six and he'd gone dizzy and felt sick again. "Get into bed you," I ordered. Spawn had stopped wailing and was sobbing unhappily, then he looked at me with his big brown eyes and started to cry just as he had to let go from both ends into the bath. I lifted him out of the bath and sat him in the sink, and washed him for the third time that night from head to toe. When I laid him on his towel and bundled him up, the poor little thing was shivering and sobbing. I sang a couple of songs to him, and told him that he was a good boy, and he calmed down, but he was so tired and yawning. I dressed him in a clean sleepsuit, cleaned and remade his bed, put him in a clean sleeping bag and put him back in to sleep, and the poor baby lay quietly and dozed off within minutes. I then cleaned the bath and sink with sterilising fluid, and put all the dirty clothing, bed linen and teddies in the washing machine.

When I went in to see the Husband, he was lying in bed wearing pyjamas, with the duvet and 2 extra blankets over and he was shivering and freezing cold to the touch. I went downstairs and made him a hot water bottle - something I don't think I've had to do for him in the 13 years we've been together. By now it was about half past nine. I put the washing into the tumble dryer and settled down to try and eat some dinner. I glanced at the baby monitor and noticed Spawn starting to twitch in his sleep. I looked, and he suddenly started to thrash. I ran upstairs, and as I got into his room, the volcano was back. We went through the whole procedure again - but this time I was on my own. I stripped him out of his sleeping bag and raced him into the bathroom. He had his fourth bath, again puking into it but luckily right at the end so I could just swoop him out of it before it started to drift. I bundled him up, soothing him with songs and cuddles, then dressed him in yet another clean sleepsuit. The Husband had heard the commotion but was too weak to even move from the bed.

At this point, I'd run out of clean sheets and sleeping bags for Spawn, and wasn't happy about him sleeping in his own room if he was going to be sick again. But I hadn't anything else for him to sleep in - he was way too big for his basket now, and if I put him in his pop-up travel cot and he puked in that, it would be quite a job to get him out of it quickly, not to mention to clean. In the end, I folded up a towel, laid it on his change mat, and he slept on that, on the floor in our room, with a blanket over him. I could tell he was feeling like crap because he quite happily accepted the arrangement when I put him down on it. The Husband reached down from the bed and stroked him, which was as much as he could manage. I had another load of bedding and clothes to wash and dry.

I managed to get into bed by about 2 o'clock in the morning, and after listening to Spawn sleeping, had finally managed to doze off for about 30 minutes, when a loud noise outside awoke me. Suddenly there was the sound of two people screaming at each other, right outside our house. One young man's voice was explaining to a young woman that he did not care for her any more and she was a strumpet, who was to please leave. I couldn't believe it - I thought I was dreaming for a minute, but the Husband had leapt out of bed and was at the window. The screaming continued, as did the loud noises - the boy/man was smashing the wing mirrors off cars parked in the road as he made his way down it. The Husband, forgetting that he was in the middle of a viral illness, went into Policing mode, threw on some clothes and went out after them. A few neighbours were also out, and the Husband got in the car and drove down the road. I was leaning out of the window trying to see where he'd got to, when I heard more screaming, and what sounded like the Husband's voice, then the voice of the young man shouting "I'll fucking stab you!" I went cold - ran downstairs, and tried to see where they were from the living room window. I rang the Husband's mobile, but just got his answerphone. For the next 5 minutes I rang his mobile constantly, consciously NOT imagining what might have just happened and thank the Lord he suddenly answered it, saying "Yeah, I'm just driving back - little fucker threatened to stab me." He came back, then went over to let some of the neighbours know that he'd 'called it in', and then, we tried to go back to sleep. (HA!) We managed to miss the police car that drove down the road a few minutes later, but that was the end of that really.

And bless his little heart, Spawn had slept through the whole thing, on his change mat on the floor. We didn't hear anything more about it from the police, and the Husband and Spawn were poorly for another couple of days and the next week respectively. I did remind the Husband that running around streets in the middle of a winter's night in pyjamas and a jumper tackling drunk knife-threatening hormonal teenage delinquents is not a recommended course of treatment for Norovirus.

And - this is not the normal sort of goings-on for my street. Honestly. This is a nice respectable neighbourhood, I'll have you know. Probably. Oh, and I was absolutely fine. I don't have time for being ill, you know.

2008-03-29T16:13:00.000-07:00

Hey, I've managed to make it back after only a month or so... stop moaning. (Yeah, like anyone is reading this).

Did I tell you that Spawn has now had 2 haircuts? The first one done by the Husband just after Christmas: I didn't want him to do it - my little Spawn had curly tendrils that looked ever so sweet, but in all honesty they were getting rather long, and he'd been mistaken for a girl so often that it was now becoming embarrassing. The Husband had been threatening to cut his hair for a couple of months, and the good Mrs. B had backed him up saying that if one of us didn't do it soon she would. I was alone in my defence of Spawn's Mercury-style wings.

Then one night the Husband volunteered to bath Spawn and put him to bed (rather than us paper-scissor-stoning to see who lost) - I should have smelled a rat, but I was so grateful to get a break that I jumped at the offer. I thought they had been quiet for a while, and then they reappeared downstairs accompanied by the Husband's triumphant "Da-da!" and proudly showing off what he'd done to my first-born's untouched locks. After the horrified shock had subsided, I had to admit, he'd done a pretty good job - Spawn suddenly looked like a proper little boy and not such a baby any more. I asked the Husband how he'd done it. "Just sat him on the toilet and cut bits off." Hmmm.

The next day, I noticed that he'd left a long strand next to Spawn's ear. "Give me the scissors - I'll do it while you're holding him," I said. "No, no - I'll do it," he replied, control bloody freak that he is.

He'd managed to nick the top part of Spawn's ear with the scissors. Ears bleed a rather unnecessary amount, don't they? What a bad daddy, oh dear, Mama will protect you from the nasty evil man... I milked that one for a good ten days :)

One thing I've noticed about Spawn's hair is that it seems to have a Magician's Nephew quality about it - the more we cut it, the quicker it grows. He needed another haircut about 6 weeks after that. By now he was much bigger and more mobile, and I suppose he knew what was coming, so every time he heard or caught sight of the scissors, he'd whip his head round to that side. I let the Husband do battle with him until their tempers were hanging by a thread, then decided that I could finish off just before Spawn's bath. I was attempting the Fringe - I know now that this is not for the novice. I wasn't going to give him an Edmund Blackadder kind of thing, just shorten what was there, but at my very first snip he moved and I ended up with a nice diagonal line. Shiiiiiit.

Long story short - I hacked a few more bits off, the Husband managed to even out the fringe, and I trimmed around his ears (a blood-free episode this time, which I hastened to point out to the Husband), and he looked fairly respectable at the end of it all. But he now needs yet another one, and we are both pretending that we haven't noticed.

2008-02-05T11:13:00.000-08:00

Blimey. Where has the time gone? I can't believe how quickly Christmas whooshed past, and I'm pretty sure we skipped January altogether this year. Quick catch-up stuff first then.

Dunno about you but I spent the whole of Christmas feeling like crap, having managed to pick up what I suspected was diptheria but turned out to be merely "a bug." Mine was the one where you get a massive lump in your throat for days, followed by three weeks of trying to cough your lungs up. (Must be what it's like for a cat with hairballs). Fortunately Spawn and the Husband cleverly managed to avoid any kind of illness.

So, Spawn's first Christmas, which I'd really been looking forward to, was suddenly upon us. I was ill, both the Husband and I had worked right up to it (and including it, on the poor Husband's part) and the Friday before (Christmas being Tuesday), the Husband and I realised we hadn't actually bought him any presents. We hurried over to Mothercare World and guiltily made a couple of purchases - nothing much, just enough to ease our consciences.

I was most disappointed that Spawn hadn't gone bananas for the Christmas tree in the way I'd been hoping. It wasn't the spur to make him start crawling like the Health Visitor had told me it would be. He was pretty impressed that one afternoon he had gone up for a nap, and when he came down again the living room had new twinkly stuff all over it, but after the first half hour it was old news.

We spent Christmas day over at the Mum-in-law's, with my stepdad as well (I didn't want to leave him on his own). The Husband was working until around 3pm, in time for Christmas dinner, so we saved present-opening until then. Spawn was resplendent all day in his My First Christmas top (obligatory.. I think they've passed a law or something now) and heartily tucked into a blitzed-up turkey dinner. I think I rather horrified the Stepdad-in-law by shoving turkey, roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots, parsnips and a Yorkshire pudding (a staple of the Mum-in-law's Christmas dinner - I myself find it slightly odd, but as I wasn't having to cook it, who was going to complain?) into a plastic jug with a bit of gravy and some water and going at it with our £4 Value hand blender from Tesco's (absolute gem - don't bother buying anything more expensive, it does the lot). His face when he saw what it looked like suggested I was insane to contemplate giving it to his beloved grandson, however, Mum-in-law persuaded him to try a tiny bit and he was amazed that it tasted like a Christmas dinner. Dur.

Slightly embarrassing moment when we opened Spawn's presents from grandparents and both my stepdad and the Husband's mum and stepdad had bought him rocking animals - a ladybird and a horse. Still, he was far too young for either of them. What on earth made them think he'd be able to use them before next Christmas?

Boxing Day we had our own proper Christmas day, where we opened our presents. We needn't have worried about him not having enough toys - the living room looked like we'd opened a bloody creche, it was ridiculous. And a rather worrying trend seems to have been started: people had bought Spawn presents but not us. What the fuck?? When did we agree to that? No-one mentioned THAT little diamond in the stupid pregnancy books or magazines, so be warned. If our nearest and dearest had actually mentioned that this was going to be the score BEFORE we'd raced around trying to make sure we'd bought them presents, we would have damn well saved ourselves the time and money. We have Learned for next year. We have also Learned to ask for clothes for his birthday, as we had to take a week off work in the New Year to clear out and make room for all the stuff Spawn has now acquired. How on earth does everyone fit all this shit in? The charity shops have done very well out of us this past month.

The day after Boxing Day, Spawn decided to prove that see, he could crawl thank you very much, but he just didn't choose to do so right now. Over the next 2 weeks, he went from: moving from one sitting spot to another without us seeing how he'd done it, to full-speed crawling the length of the living room, shrieking with laughter and excitement the whole way. His initial style was not dissimilar to that cat on You Tube that walks like Hitler - every time he lifted a hand to move forward he waved it up in the air, but after we wet ourselves laughing at him he changed it to the more conventional style. I now cannot go anywhere without the slap-slap-slap-slap sound of him following right behind. If I go upstairs, he crawls to the door and sits banging on it to make me re-appear - however, he hasn't quite grasped that I can't actually get back in until he moves away from the door. We normally end up in a Mexican stand-off with him complaining that I'm hiding from him on purpose, and me peering at him through the crack trying to persuade him to move back, until the Husband finally realises what's going on and rescues us both.

Spawn also discovered clapping just after Christmas, and now claps whenever he is excited, and at the right parts of "If You're Happy And You Know It", although I suspect it is more to do with me nodding wildly and grimacing than him understanding the cause-and-effect theme of the song. Rather like the horse that could count.

Speaking of songs, did I mention that I take him to a class now? It's called Baby Eureka, and it's described as 'heuristic play'. I know, I know - for fucksakes, you're thinking. But I have to admit, it's pretty good. The woman that runs it is a total organic-hippy-earth mother-type, but she's very sweet. She is all about no pressure, yeah - you just pay as you go, so you can drop in this week or not bother next week, which is handy. It's for babies up to a year or so old, so no rampaging toddlers stampeding over our non-mobile lumps. It starts off with just letting them play with whatever random toys she has put out for them at the beginning - egg shakers, small beach balls, musical instruments etc. I thought they were whatever was left over from the toddler group immediately before our one, but now I think she puts things out on purpose. Then we do a bit of singing and playing peekaboo with scarves, and then - then! It's time for the Treasure Baskets. They are wondrous things and I love them. They're shallow baskets filled with what can only be described as junk - but they're magical. All the babies suddenly go quiet as they're engrossed with rooting through all this stuff in them. All the mums suddenly go and get a cup of (organic) tea or (organic) coffee and (organic) biscuits and sit back for a natter. I'm telling you, it's amazing. They (the babies) will sit there for 15 - 20 minutes and amuse themselves completely, and when the lovely hippy lady packs them all away for the next bit there are howls of protest and they gang up to out-flank her - one will hang on to a basket she's trying to take, while another will pull as many bits out of the one behind her as fast as he can, and a third will take more out of the one in her other hand. Of course you just have to have your own Treasure Basket at home - Spawn's consists of a cardboard box that I got at work, filled with whatever random things I found in the kitchen utensil drawer and other odds and sods. Bearing in mind how many Christmas presents he got, the skanky old box with junk in is his favourite thing to play with. After the baskets comes Parachute Play, and Bubbles, and Spawn goes nuts for both of those too. When he gets excited he twirls both hands and both feet like he's conducting an orchestra and trying to shake off pins and needles at the same time and either shrieks eardrum-piercingly or goes "OOOH!" It is a source of much amusement for the other mums and the lovely hippy lady.

Well, I was so pleased with his reaction to Eureka that I got over-ambitious, and signed him up for a Sing and Sign course. Now, I only have 1 day a week off, and Baby Eureka is on that day. But so was Sing and Sign. I was rather sad about him not going to BE any more, seeing as how he loved it so much, but I reasoned that he'd like this just as much, and we'd be learning as well. Bonus. So off we went to our first class just after New Year. Oh dear.

For a start, the money-grabbing wench demands that you pay for the 10-week class up front. Hmm. Fine. Anyway, we arrived, and found ourselves in a big, modern but very echoey church hall. The class began with (naturally enough) some songs. ALL the other mums joined in lustily. I glanced around, and Spawn and I looked at each other doubtfully . How come we didn't know these songs? I sing a lot of nursery rhymes to him, and we pride ourselves on our wide and varied range. Then, ALL the other mums joined in perfectly with the signing. I began to smell a rat.

It turns out, not that the money-grabbing wench had mentioned it at all, that it's the Done Thing to do the course twice, and all the other people there had already done just that. I was really cross - I had assumed that we would all be learning together.

Spawn was looking frantically from person to person, wondering what the hell was going on. It was extremely loud in there, and to make sure she was being heard, the Sing and Sign woman was bellowing her songs out. It went on and on... Most of the signs in that first class Spawn and I already knew, so we were both starting to get a little bored. There was nothing for the babies to do really, and I could see that a few others were beginning to look bored too. None of them were doing the signs. The younger one next to us had howled the whole way through. The other mums were bored and chatting to each other. We couldn't follow what was going on over the row. The Sing and Sign woman was still being overly loud and cheerful. Spawn was unimpressed. I came out with a headache.

The following week, I reasoned that we would be learning new signs this time, and if we sat a bit closer to her we'd be able to hear her better. So, back we went. The class started. The Sing and Sign woman began Singing, very loudly. Spawn took one look at her and howled. The more she sang, the more he howled. I had to retreat back from the circle we were all sitting in and try and pacify him with a bottle. Eventually his sobs died down, but when she came over to see him he wasn't having any of it and howled even more loudly. There was something about her that just didn't do it for him. When he finally calmed down, once more I could tell that he was bored, and just waiting for me to take him away from all this.

The third week loomed. I had had enough. Why was I putting myself and Spawn through all this? Then a friend of mine said "I've got the DVD from Sing and Sign - do you want to borrow it?" I watched it. From the looks of it, it was the whole course on 1 DVD. Brilliant - we never had to go back - I just wish she'd mentioned it before I'd paid out for the course. Please take my advice, save yourself some money, and just get the DVD.

I took Spawn back to Baby Eureka where he was welcomed with open arms. The only down side is that Spawn seems to have been traumatised by the Sing and Sign woman, because as soon as we started singing back at Baby Eureka, he panicked and began howling. However, once he realised she was nowhere to be seen he calmed himself and settled in for a good Treasure Basket session. The same thing happened last week, but this time he only cried for a minute or two. I'm sure that with time, and some counselling, he'll make a full recovery.

2007-11-20T14:19:00.000-08:00

So Spawn had his 7 - 9 Month Check the other week. The Health Visitor arrived half an hour late (I think... I'm fairly sure it was supposed to be at 10am but seeing as I didn't listen when she told me what time she was coming, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt) and didn't take her coat off, making me think straight away that she wasn't intending to be here very long.

"So, how do you think he's doing?" she said. Hang on a minute, that's her job. How am I supposed to know? He's still alive isn't he? In my book, that's pretty good going.

"Erm.. fine?" I replied. She looked at me, obviously expecting more. "Well... he's very alert," I said. Spawn looked at me, then looked the HV up and down. "And he eats well," I continued rather lamely. "He's very easy going, not much fazes him," I added. She nodded. "So, much better than when he was first born then," she said with a snidey laugh. I bristled. What did she mean by THAT? Fucksakes - I'd obviously made a mistake in asking for advice on anything when he was first born. Had I been on some sort of list of mothers who weren't Coping, or was Spawn down in their paperwork as a Problem child? Remind me never to ask anyone 'professional' for help on anything child-related in the future, in case Social Services are alerted. How dare I not know what I'm doing with my first child and admit any kind of weakness to them. "Actually I think it was more I wasn't very confident in what I was doing, to be honest," I told her.

So we were off to a good start then. She got out a clipboard and began marking things off on it. "Is he crawling yet?" "Erm no - but he's rolling." "Rolling?" she said, like I'd also said "- in dog shit". "Well, is he holding himself up when he's on his front?" Sort of, I thought. "Yes," I replied confidently.
"Is he saying Mama and Dada?" Eh? He's seven months old for chrissakes. He doesn't even know he's English, let alone how to speak it yet. "Well, he's making the noises, but not at anyone," I said. She nodded happily and ticked something.
"Is he waving hello and goodbye?" Well let's see. He's still pretty impressed by his own hands, so you're asking me if he's mastered the intricacies of social greetings yet? "No."
"Is he socially aware?" What? Am I socially aware? Are you? What does that mean? I try not to fart in public, is that socially aware? I can't say the same for Spawn, if that's the case. "How do you mean?" I asked, feeling the hairline cracks starting to creep across my temper. "Does he understand different tones of voice?" "Well, he doesn't like it if anyone shouts or gets angry." Another happy nod and a tick. What the fuck?
"Is he eating family foods?" Whose family? Family-sized, like bags of crisps? "Well, we give him some of what we're having, just mushed up a bit." "Oh - are you pureeing it? You need to think about mashing things so he can have lumps." "He's well used to lumps - I get too bored to make things smooth." She nodded and ticked again.
By now I was feeling a bit paranoid. "So is he meant to be doing all those things then?" I asked. "Oh, there's a big range of what's normal at this age," she said. "He's eight months isn't he? By now some babies are cruising round the furniture and communicating well, but some just take a bit longer than others." "He's just over seven months actually," I said. She glanced down at her notes.

"Let's weigh him," she said, changing the subject. I stripped Spawn off while she got her scales out. He immediately rolled over and began pressing the buttons on them for her. After weighing (he sat up on them, laying down is for wimps) she had a feel of his bits, during which he scowled suspiciously at her, looking indignant throughout, then after I dressed him she showed him a finger puppet, which he pulled off her finger and tried to eat. "He's a very serious baby... I'm having a job getting a smile out of him," she remarked. You just insulted and assaulted him and now you want him to smile at you? "He doesn't smile at people he doesn't know very well," I said smugly. Spawn tried to pull the buttons off her coat.

There wasn't much more to it than that really. She said, in not so many words, that as far as they were concerned, I was now on my own with him. They apparently do a 2 year check, but all it consists of is a questionnaire that's mailed out to you. How reassuring. Of course, I could always ring her if I had any questions (yeah, I fell for that one before) or see her at the clinic (which she changed the day of so it doesn't coincide with my day off in the week any more), but really they wouldn't do any more visits unless there were Problems. Well to hell with you then, be-atch. Get out of my house. I'm glad you didn't have a drink, and I'm glad I never bought any biscuits for you.

To soften the blow she did give me a book bag though, and patronisingly suggested I joined the library for Spawn, to which I equally patronisingly told her I had already done so. Spawn liked the books and proceeded to chew one of them vigorously.

Oh, and he waved hello at me on Monday.

2007-11-10T15:44:00.000-08:00

OK - this is going to be a very self-indulgent one that I have been promising myself for ages... please do forgive me, and whizz past it to the next one if it doesn't suit your tastes, but I feel I owe it to my peace of mind just to get it out and clear some space. Actually, it's all rather embarrassingly pseudo-philosophic and preachy so just move on now please. Nothing to see here. Normal service is resumed on the next entry.

Well, don't say I didn't warn you.

Having Spawn, on the whole, is really great. I wish now that I hadn't waited so long to have him, because it has been such a great experience so far already, but I suppose I wasn't in any sort of place work-wise, or maturity-wise, to have gone through all this any earlier. I wish I'd just been braver about sorting everything out sooner. If you sat and thought about having kids, no-one would do it, which is why it took me so long, being a compulsive list-maker and planner. But no matter how much you plan and organise and control, at some point you just have to take a leap of faith, like Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade, and hope there's a cleverly-disguised ledge waiting for you.
It is the most bizarre thing, and I'm going to sound like the worst kind of hippy/shaman/charlatan mystic, but I do feel like I've joined in with, what? The yin in the universe? The feminine spirit? (I may be repeating myself here, but I'm buggered if I'm going to trawl back through my rambling nonsense to check). What I mean, is that I feel I can now empathise with women throughout the complete history of humanity. Not only women, but with female animals too. With female plants? Nah, that's going a bit far. But really, I can only best describe it as feeling like I've properly grown up and plugged into the rhythm of the planet. The experience of creating, giving birth to and rearing offspring is so unique, unremarkable because it is so essential, yet it makes you feel like you can see to the ends of the universe in both directions. A bold claim, I know :)
Whenever anyone I know tells me that they are having a kid, I get two feelings. The first one is absolute sheer delight for them. This consists of perhaps instinctive joy at a primitive strengthening of the group (I think that manager of mine who suggested it was onto something), with a sprinkling of "Brilliant - if I'm going down, I'm going to take as many of the bastards with me as possible, and here's another one!" The second feeling is abject terror, that anything less than their well-deserved happiness should befall them. I dare not even think of bad things happening, just in case I somehow jinx them. Even typing this I'm starting to feel uneasy.
In my job, I see some really sad situations. The ones that have affected me more than I realised though, are the ones where - hang on, let me give you an example. A couple of years ago, a lovely old gent came to see me. He was registering his wife's death, and as we proceeded, he chatted to me about her and about their life together. They had been married for 60 years, and had a wonderful life together - not hugely exciting, they weren't particularly rich, but they had just been each other's soulmates for all that time. Early on, they had decided that kids weren't for them, and they had never regretted their decision - they travelled all over, and had nice things, and always loved each other. He said to me then, "We just had each other, and now she's gone, I've no-one." He wasn't maudlyn about it, he was just stating the sad truth. When he said he wasn't looking forward to Christmas on his own, it was all I could do not to sweep him up and take him home with me. My point here is, I looked at this dignified, charming gentleman and saw his life as it would be now, and how it would have been if he'd had a reminder of his lovely wife in the shape of a son or daughter, and I thought about the Husband and me, and I took a big step on the road that led to Spawn. And no, I didn't have him so he could look after us when we're old (he'll find out that it's an intrinsic part of the womb-letting contract in his own good time). I look at Spawn and I see the Husband, and he looks at Spawn and sees me.
Speaking of which, how sci-fi is that? I grew it, and there it is, sizing me up with my own eyes. It is very surreal to see expressions peering back at you that it's either learned from you or extracted from your DNA. And another strange thing is how all babies seem to do the same things as predicted by books/medical professionals/etc - I know there are the exceptions, but generally they do open their eyes at this point, and they do start smiling and recognising you at that point, and they do start sitting up and rolling around and eating actual food and sleeping longer and so on. When you're waiting for the Next Thing, it does feel like it won't happen, but blow me, they're right again. Don't you think that's weird?
It is rather nice to have him not able to take his eyes off us. Depending on who he feels like looking at today, he'll spend ages inspecting the face of the Chosen One with pokey little fingers, watching your every move around the room, smiling delightedly if you look back at him, craning around other, lesser beings to carry on watching you, explaining the complexities of this toy to you and you only, kicking his feet madly and screaming excitedly when you come back into the room. Some days, he's my biggest fan, he likes me even more than my cats do. And that has got to cheer you up.
I can't tell you how sad I am that my Mum isn't here to see how he's getting on. The look on her face that first time she came to see me after I'd had him, and I put him in her arms, is something I hope I never forget. I think she honestly never thought she could ever be that happy , and she'd never dared to hope it would happen. Thank God I didn't wait any longer to have him. If Mum had died before he'd been born, or worse still while I was pregnant, I would have never forgiven myself. I have to be thankful that she got to meet him, and was just so thrilled and so proud, and loved him so much. He even smiled one of his first few smiles at her, for which I can only thank him for delighting his Grandma like that. Mum and I would talk about what she'd do with him when she was better (which we'd assumed she would be very soon, and hadn't been told anything different) - take him out for a walk in his pram, babysit for him, teach him to speak Cantonese (she'd already told him that she was his Ap-po), spoil him rotten at Christmas, take him to the zoo.... I am just heartbroken for both of them that they never got to do these things. Spawn adores a big white polar bear toy that she bought for him last Christmas when I was pregnant, and it makes me happy and sad at the same time to see him playing with it, but that Mum never did. Having him though, lessened the blow of losing her - I had to carry on doing normal things for him, he still needing feeding and changing and putting to bed. Mum and I were never close, but I could feel that having Spawn was going to change things - yes, she would still drive me insane, but we had something in common now, and I was looking forward to seeing how that would change our relationship. It wasn't to be though. The Mum-in-law is just wonderful, and dotes on Spawn, but every now and then I feel what I can only describe as a tiny resentment that she gets it all, and my mum missed out on everything apart from those first 8 weeks. Poor Spawn has, in grandparenting terms, kind of the opposite to what I had - I had a paternal grandmother, a maternal grandmother who I never met and no grandfathers at all. He has just 1 grandmother, and then a step-grandfather, another step-grandfather, and an actual grandfather (and technically a step-grandmother), all of whom are very much present and correct.

Oh for God's sake, enough already.

2007-10-18T12:05:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I'm crap at blogging. Where the hell have 2 months gone? But I have been a busy bee and no mistake.

I'm back at work now, and nothing there is any different to how I left it. Apart from all my Stuff being scattered to the four winds and hidden in strange and unusual places, and everyone being just that much more miserable than I remembered, I was dumped straight back into it all. So much so, that despite them changing our entire computer system behind my back, I was given 20 minutes' look at it and then left on my own for the rest of the first week. As in, the no-one-else-in-the-building kind of left on my own. I got the distinct impression that they'd looked up, saw I was back, and thought "Ah good - she's back. We can get on with other stuff now," that I'd carry on where I left off, not that I'd need a gentle downward slope to get me back into it or anything. And of course, I just got on with it.

I do admit to shedding 1 small tear when I left for work the first day, thinking of Spawn being without me for a whole day for the first time in his little life. Spawn, on the other hand, couldn't have given a toss. I don't think he even noticed I wasn't there. He and the Husband were far too busy male-bonding to spare me a second thought.

After a week or so of work, I'd had enough and went off on holiday to Spain.

Actually, I was dreading it. We'd booked it ages ago, when I hadn't really given it much thought. The idea was that we'd go over to my mum's place on the Costa Blanca, with the in-laws, so we'd have some back-up with Spawn. The closer the day got, the more I dreaded it. I kept telling people that it wasn't going to be any kind of holiday for us, but it was something that had to be done, so that we could make all the mistakes and learn from them for the next time, when we might actually enjoy it. When we packed, the Husband and I had our usual modest cases, not weighing a great deal (you don't need much for a week, especially if you're staying in a house that's already got everything there for you). Spawn had the biggest holdall we could buy. It must have been 5 foot long - you could have fitted a body in it - and was rammed full of his stuff, and then I took the Ginormous Change Bag that I normally drag around, as hand luggage, and that was rammed as well. He's about a foot and a half long, so how come he needed so much luggage? And we didn't even need to worry about things like high chairs or baths or toys or playmats as my stepdad (who'd already been out there a couple of weeks) had already bought every single baby item he'd come across in Spain.

Anyway, the day arrived, and off we went. All was going well - Spawn had his breakfast, we'd managed to fit everything in the car, everyone was happy. We'd been driving for about half an hour, chatting cheerfully about how we'd missed the traffic and would have enough time for a nice breakfast at Stansted, when suddenly the Husband looked in the rear view mirror at me and said "Don't go mad - but I've left my driving licence at home." A cold, leaden silence descended on everyone as he turned around. No-one spoke when we arrived back at home, or when we then sat in traffic on the second trip to the airport, watching the time tick away, or when I had to explain to the valet parking man exactly why we were going to be so late. The Husband had stopped looking in the mirror because the expression on my face was scaring him, and the Mum-in-law had had to have one of her antidepressant pills because of the speed he was now driving at. Spawn snoozed through all this blissfully.

Anyway, he was an absolute model child in the airport and on the plane - the take-off and landing didn't bother him in the slightest (I was more worried than he was), and he spent half the flight conked out on the Husband's lap, and the other half chatting cheerfully to the Mum-in-law or blowing loud, rude raspberries at the woman next to her.

When we arrived at the airport, the Husband went to sort out the hire car, with the Stepdad-in-law. Spawn, the Mum-in-law and I were stood over at the other side with trolleys laden with bags. We waited. We watched the Husband discussing things with the woman on the desk. We waited some more. I fed Spawn his lunch. We watched a rather more animated discussion. Finally the Husband looked over his shoulder at me and mouthed something. "What?" I replied. He beckoned me over. "I can't pay with a debit card," he said.
"Pay with your credit card then," I said, wondering why he needed to be told this. He looked at me. "I didn't bring it....I didn't think I'd need it."
I gave him a Look, not dissimilar to the one I'd been giving him this morning on the drive to the airport (the second one). "Well it's a good job I brought mine then, isn't it?" I paid for the car. The woman on the desk gave me a sympathetic Look. We continued on our way.

On the drive to my mum's place, I navigated and the Husband drove, and when we were almost there I told him about the right turn we needed about second after we actually needed it. He began to complain loudly. I asked him if he'd like to reconsider, bearing in mind that the Scales of Blame were rather heavy on his side. He shut up. But I still haven't got that eternity ring.

For the next week, Spawn was as good as gold. He slept for his usual 11-12 hours in the travel cot bubble thingmy on the floor, he ate whatever strange vegetables I bought and mushed up for him (oh yeah - by the way, he's on solids now), he played in his paddling pool, he rolled around on the floor, he happily splashed in the sea or snoozed in his stroller underneath restaurant tables late at night. He smiled broadly at everyone who spoke to him, in English or Spanish. He studied the Spanish landscape with great interest from his strange (rather dangerously crap, and worryingly stained) car seat (yeah thanks for that, Europcar). The Husband observed one day that Spawn seemed to be on holiday too, and was really enjoying himself.

When we got home, he took a look around, thought "Oh yes, home again," and settled straight back into his old routine. The Husband and I told each other that we were extremely lucky and wondered why he had let us off so lightly. I am certain he is storing it up for future use.

2007-08-08T13:33:00.000-07:00

This is all degenerating into randomness I know, do forgive me. When I go back to work, maybe my brain will awake from hibernation and I'll get back to this regularly... but for now, are you ready for more aimless ranting? Here we go:

Once you get past about 3 months, nobody seems to know if you count baby-age in weeks any more, or start using months. It may not seem that important, but when you're buying Stuff, and it says 'from 4 months', does it mean 16 weeks or 4 calendar months? I asked my health visitor which one it was. She said "Hmm. That's a good question."
I am bursting to buy Stuff for Spawn. There are tons and tons of things you never knew you needed, and have been doing perfectly fine without, until your eyes wander across something in yet another catalogue, or someone says "Have you heard of so-and-so?", and suddenly the Retail Angels are singing and a heavenly beam of golden light is cast across said Stuff. Luckily, for the most part, common sense has prevailed. Normally, if I leave it a week or two and then go back to it, I can see that we don't actually need a complete sunblocking black shroud to cover the pram from handle to wheels and make it look like I'm wheeling a junior Addams Family member around after all. But that's the tricksy thing about babies. Their needs keep changing, and so you con yourself into thinking that you MUST completely buy everything for that Next Stage. Resist. Someone will give you it for free sooner or later anyway. I would honestly say that I have only actually needed to buy about 10% of the things I thought I would need.
Meeting up with other mothers - now that is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I think "Yeah, it'd be nice to get out, chat to someone else going through the same things, be a bit sociable." But on the other hand, you're entering an absolute minefield. There are mums you like, but you don't like their kids. Kids you like, but you don't like their mums. Mums you like, but you don't like their friends. Mums who see you and everything about you as competition. Mums who seem to be on commission from the NCT/parenting websites/mum-and-baby-groups/local nurseries/etc etc (see previous entry's rant about conversations with other mothers). I have bumped into this woman a couple of times, at the baby clinic and at my corner shop, and I have been Nice and said Hello and asked after her numerous offspring. Then the other week, I saw her when I was coming back home from a walk, and we again stopped for a quick exchange of hellos. The next thing I know, she's grilling me. Where did I live? What number? Which end of the road was that? When was I going back to work? Where did I work? Was I married? What did my Husband do? She finished off by threatening to call in one day! Hells bells! I have started locking the door and keeping all the windows shut whenever I go upstairs, just in case I come down and find her stretched out on the sofa flicking through Sky.
Oh you'll never guess what, I have come across Scandinavian girl from my antenatal classes again! Apparently she and cat's-bum-mouth have really chummed up and see each other all the time, and I've been invited to join the hallowed circle. Hmm. I bumped into her when the Husband and I took Spawn swimming (her baby had, naturally, already completed a whole swimming course. What. Ever.) Spawn, incidentally, loves the water. We paddled him in the sea first, which he didn't object to, and last weekend we took him back to the beach, he got upset when a wave crashed over his head but other than that, it was all good. We decided to try the local pool out despite the negative comments I'd heard from one of the mums at the baby massage class I went to, and it was absolutely fine. He rather enjoyed bobbing around in his inflatable throne, and when we took him out of it and swooshed him around in the water, he kicked his legs energetically whenever he was on his front, and screeched angrily if we tried to put him on his back. Tip - the pool was a great opportunity to check out all the things that I'd seen in the catalogues and websites too, because there was every imaginable floating device and all the variations of swimming clothing being modelled by all the littluns. The best thing though, was that Spawn didn't puke in the pool.
I can't wait for him to start weaning, because I am a bit bored of milk. He probably is as well, seeing as he watches everything I eat or drink with great interest. But I'm going to wait for a bit, as he's perfectly alright with milk for now. But here is another weird thing - literally, every single mother I have come across, has told me that they HAD to wean their baby so early, because they were SUCH a Hungry Baby. Now, is it that, because of the marvellous parenting it had, their baby grew so fast and so strong, it just NEEDED this extra nutrition to sustain it's superbrain/athlete-type growth? Is it bollocks. It's just another very strange way for people to wear their I'm Such A Great Parent badges.
I am getting extremely ratty with the Husband. I can't imagine it's all his fault, although it does seem like it at times. I do find myself swooping down on the tiniest thing and using it as more Evidence That I Do Everything. Last night, I had bathed Spawn and was feeding him in his room, all nice and quiet like. The blinds were drawn, I was listening to some comedy thing on Radio 4 (music keeps Spawn awake), the birds were singing, he was beginning to doze, all was calm. Enter the Husband, stage left. Remembering a lecture I'd given him about Me Doing Everything, he was clearing up for me in the bathroom. Suddenly he did one of his gigantic sneezes (I normally measure them in the number of cats they make leap up and run out of the room - this was a 3-cat sneeze) which shot Spawn upright with wild, staring eyes. He (the Husband) then had a Victoria Falls pee, flushed the loo loudly, dropped the plastic jug in the bath, cursed, whistled as he put things away in there, and then tiptoed into Spawn's bedroom so as not to wake him. We both gave him a Look, and I had Words with him once I'd put Spawn to bed. Tonight, I went into the bathroom after Spawn had gone to bed, and the Husband hadn't cleared anything. I thought "Lazy bastard. I do Everything around here." Call me unreasonable if you will, but there's no sign of that eternity ring yet...

2007-07-02T09:37:00.000-07:00

Random things that have occurred to me:

Babies are really dumb. Who else, when they're absolutely knackered, doesn't want to go to sleep? Instead of thinking, "Ooh sleep, yeah, that'd be lovely, I could do with a kip," decides that screaming in increasing octaves and flailing your arms and legs around so that you get really hot, sweaty and snotty, would be a better thing to do?
Cutting baby fingernails with nail clippers is a scary task, akin to playing Operation. A very steady hand is called for. Cutting baby fingers with nail clippers (accidentally!) results in loud objections, tears and massive pangs of guilt.
Spawn has tons of hair, which stands on end alarmingly and looks like it's been styled by the four winds. No matter what I do to it, it sticks up.
I have developed Attention Deficit Disorder. I can't concentrate on one thing at a time - if I go to do something, on the way there I'll think of something else to do and go off to do that, and then I'll think of something else to do on the way to doing that - etc etc ad infinitum. This means I get Nothing done at all and spend my day in ever-decreasing circles.
I know that all the pregnancy-related hormones are out of me now, because I've got my periods back (a Health Visitor, not my normal one, said "Oh, bad luck on getting them back so early." Early? When was I supposed to get them back then? I thought I was doing quite well that it'd been 14 weeks since Spawn was born. Am now paranoid that I've somehow failed at something here, but also wondering if I've got them back because I'm fertile again, even though they reckon you still can get pregnant while you're breastfeeding), and also because my hair has started falling out again. When I was up the duff, not much of it fell out at all, which was nice, because I normally shed like a moulting dog. However, I'm now making up for 9 months of not having falling-out-hair - you could make a wig out of what's coming out now. The Husband was quite unnerved and asked if I was alright. I think I read somewhere that it'll settle down again soon. In the meantime I have to clip it up all the time or the house is full of tumbleweeds.
There is a massive Breastfeeding myth/conspiracy, and it is this: loads and loads of women will tell you that, oh yes, they breastfed their kids, of course, and from this you get the impression, therefore, that it is absolutely the norm and you're a bit of an oddball if you decide to do anything else. BUT - what they fail to mention, is that these bloody sanctimonious women very rarely breastfed for longer than a few weeks, and I mean normally no longer than a month if that. Some only managed a few days. But they won't say that, unless you specifically ask how long they breastfed for. So when you're slogging away 3 months later thinking that this is what everyone (relatives, friends, friends of relatives, work colleagues, passing acquaintances, complete strangers in shops) did, and then you find out that you've fed longer than all except one of them, you may well find yourself feeling a mixture of supreme annoyance, gullibility, stupidity (for not finding out sooner) and smugness (at outlasting them all). It is my duty to let you all know this now. I am speaking out.
Of course you do have to remember that there will always be the ones who do it all by the book and carry it on for at least six months just like the World Health Organisation tells them to, well bully for them. What do you want, a fucking medal?
Conversations with other mothers are also a myth. There is no such thing. What happens is that one mother will be spouting on about her bloody kid/s and lecturing about the best way to do child-related things (ie, her way), and all the other ones are just waiting for her to stop talking so they can start talking about their kid/s and how their way of doing things is actually the best. No-one is listening to what is being said. I am not like this (not to the same extent as everyone else seems to be at any rate), and so I can spend the whole time not actually speaking, and normally do. Two very easy ways of winning friends and influencing mothers is to pretend to listen breathlessly to their boring anecdotes about what Snotface did this week, and to ask how they do a particular thing (pretending that you want their advice). Four hours will fly by and they won't have asked a thing about you or your life, but they'll think you're just wonderful.
You know how everyone always says "ah, they grow up so fast." I thought it was just one of those vague phrases that is used when you can't think of what to say. It turns out it was actually a warning. Literally, there will be clothes that did fit perfectly well at the start of a week and do not fit at all by the end of it. Babies are like those monstrous weeds that they measure the growth of in miles per hour. You can see the changes every day. Fer-reaky.
Another thing which has just occurred to me: on "parenting" websites, people (and I use the term loosely) will insist on referring to their family members as DD, DS or DH. I was a bit mystified, and then found out what it stood for. I wish I hadn't bothered. They are Darling Daughter, Son or Husband respectively. For Fucks Sakes.

2007-06-25T11:49:00.000-07:00

Damn that Health Visitor - she kept saying to me, "By 12 weeks, all of this will sort itself out," and I thought "You bloody patronising cow, I bet it won't, and anyway I need help NOW." But it seems she may have been not quite wrong...

Spawn is all laughy-smiley most of the time now, and we have a pretty good idea what he's yelling about when he's not (like she said). He's also been Sleeping Through for a couple of weeks now (like she said.. the woman's a witch. Burn her!) which has become extremely important. God this is all so boring I know, and yet at the same time utterly crucial.

This very bizarre thing happens, maybe it's just me but speaking to other people I don't think it is. Once you have pushed through another horrendous stage, you forget all about it and just what a fucking trauma it was... it floats away like a bad dream you can't remember when you wake up. I was at the Clinic the other week and there are now other, younger babies appearing so Spawn is no longer the smallest (he's still one of a very few boys though - I'm telling you, the ratio has gone to pot. He's going to be in demand when he's at school). I got chatting to a mum of one of these and she seemed extremely edgy and fraught and was bending the Health Visitor's ear when she was getting her spawn weighed. I observed placidly, thinking "Glad I'm not like that," when it suddenly dawned on me that I was a MILLION times worse than that....

The Baby Massage classes came to an end, and we were all really sad about it because none of us knew what we were going to do with our time now. Some of them are off back to work soon, but I've lost my anchor and am now drifting gently through the week, oblivious to calendars or weekends or any kind of usual marker of normal time. It doesn't help that the Husband works shifts, so it's not even like I can think "oh he's at home, it must be a weekend." I swapped phone numbers with Nice Mum, but we haven't been brave enough to call one another yet (or... was she just being polite and has no intention of meeting up? Did she delete my number the second I wheeled Spawn away?)

Spawn has started doing a number of annoying/revolting/charming things

Smiling massive huge whole-face smiles on cue, which make his eyes look like half-moons
Doing tv advert-type baby laughs
Shrieking at the top of his voice purely for shits and giggles. I mean, it's a really piercing sound, only dogs can hear the top end of it
Putting everything into his mouth and drooling like a mastiff
Puking (deliberately, I'm pretty sure...)

The things I have found myself doing which seem quite normal at the time but are clearly more evidence that I have Lost It Big Time:

Baby bloody Massage
'Putting his name down' for the pre-school up the road, even though he won't be going there for 2 more years - they didn't bat an eyelid when I filled the form in
Buddying up to the headmaster of the primary school - he thinks he knows me from somewhere, so he always says hello when he sees me. The Husband gets a Look on his face when I mention this
Singing Nellie the Elephant 5 times straight in a row (ridiculously, it's Spawn's all-time-favourite song. Don't ask me why. However, The Bear Went Over the Mountain reduces him to tears instantly. The Husband agrees with him on this one - "Stop singing that stupid bloody song, it doesn't even make any sense") and then singing it to myself when I'm doing the housework
Realising that my last 10 purchases on ebay have all been baby-related crap, and probably my last 10 purchases anywhere else too. Not that I have any money left now anyway.

2007-06-17T13:41:00.000-07:00

I managed to have Spawn the week leading up to Mother's Day, so I got a card and a present! Bonus. If that's not reward enough for squeezing him out of an opening 50 times smaller than him and waving goodbye to life as I once knew it, I don't know what is. (Yes, I am being a tad sarcastic, in case you missed it). The present was a large cactus - the Husband reckoned that it would remind me of what it felt like I was pushing out when he was born. Damn right. No sign of an eternity ring though; he's holding fast on that one

I was conned by the baby books/booklets/pamphlets/articles. They all reckoned that the midwives would come round and see you for the first 10 days that you are back home with your sprog. What they actually meant was, the midwife might possibly come and see you at some point within that first 10 days. If you dare to create a fuss, or look like you're really not coping, oh well, fucksakes, I suppose they might drag their arses round to see you every third day, if you're very lucky, and if they can fit you into their incredibly busy schedules of not visiting new mums.

Of course the midwife I'd had was on holiday yet again, so I got Frankenstein's Midwife. She lumbered in on the fourth day, peering at me like she thought I might stab her. She wanted to weigh Spawn, so I had to strip him completely naked, which he wasn't keen on and showed his disapproval by peeing in her scales (good lad). She asked me questions about what was in my pants and whether I'd had a poo and furtively wrote down things in the book they give you. When I asked her some questions, she looked rather put out, like she was worried the union bosses might find out that she was giving away all the trade secrets.

In all fairness though, she did advise us to bin the bath thermometer and just use our elbows and forearms to test the temperature of bath water - which I'd originally been intending to do but being all "let's do it right", we naively thought the thermometer might be Accurate rather than, as it turns out, just a Rough Guess. It also would have been more accurate to have bought a nice middle-aged lady to stand in the corner of the bedroom and say "ooh it's a bit parky in here, best shut the window tonight," than rely on Modern Technology. Just goes to show, eh?

I saw Frankenstein's Midwife once more four days later, and she was in and out in 5 minutes, then I saw my regular midwife on the 10th day for about 10 minutes, and that was it. I've now realised, when they ask you how you are, if you say "Oh, fine," to them it means "I am a complete childcare expert, your work here is done. Good woman, be off with you."

But let me just say, my God, dealing with a baby is hard work! Yeah yeah, I win a prize for the Most Obvious Statement of the Year, but bloody hell... No-one properly explains it to you beforehand. They laugh and smile and raise their eyebrows and say "tsk, well, yeah," like that covers just about everything you need to know.

The first 12 weeks have gone rather like this:

Spawn either sleeping or eating. Endless stream of visitors, not one of whom will offer help, but all of whom will accept you running around after them. Every day loads of cards in the post. Finding out which of your relatives and friends do actually care for you and being gobsmacked at how generous and lovely those ones are, and disappointed with others that you believed thought more of you. We can see Spawn growing literally right in front of our eyes, every day he's a bit different. Terror at having to do anything to him. Our beautiful gingerest most handsome ginger cat in the world, Carrot ("Mr. C"), dies. We are heartbroken and weep for days.
Spawn still eating or sleeping. Paranoia that he isn't 'doing what the books say'. Conversations between the Husband and me where we discuss how he doesn't feel like he's ours, it feels like we're looking after him for someone else (and they're really taking bloody liberties), they're going to come and take him away again and we can go back to our lovely normal lives. Spawn getting the idea of going to bed when we say, but not for how long we say. The Husband and I agree to stop calling Spawn 'Monkey', and to stop moaning about him to other people, seeing as they all either (a) tell us how much worse their kids were/are, and how lucky we are that we're only having to get up a couple of times a night, or (b) tell us how much more perfect their kids were/are and how they never have any problems like that at all, all the while looking at us like we're some sort of monsters. Both these attitudes are really annoying. I get my jeans back on and feel smug until I realise that they're my biggest ones and none of the others fit and don't look likely to fit me ever again. Also none of my blouses do up over my boobs.

Spawn howling quite a lot. The Husband and I both doing anything to avoid having to be the one that does things to him, without actually looking like we're trying to avoid him, in case the other one spots it. Luckily for Spawn, we seem to manage not to be pissed off at the same time, if one of us has had enough the other feels sorry for Spawn, so he survives. (Calm down Social Services). He also pulls off another survival winner and starts smiling at the Husband. First trip to the supermarket, we catch ourselves moaning if we can't find a Parent And Child parking space (god they really are useful...) Suddenly trolleys with those little baby seat things on are crucial, and lots of comments from ladies in the aisles. Spawn smiles at every lady he meets (except me) because as the Husband says, "he love da laydeez", and in some sort of primitive survival instinct, every man, just in case they were thinking about killing him. First visit to The Clinic - Mother-in-Law comes along for moral support. Clinic is in the church hall. There are lots of younger, bordering-on-chav mums there, all with much older babies. None of these mums talk to us. There is a really nice mum there with a pretty little baby girl with the most enormous eyelashes, Nice Mum has her mum with her and we all get on famously. The lady from the church makes everyone teas or coffees and we don't have to pay. I get Spawn weighed (stripped naked again). He's put the right amount of weight on and he is long enough to make the Health Visitor surprised, she tells me he is in the 75th Percentile for his height. I have no idea what this means, but I am pleased anyway

Spawn howling mainly in the early evening now. Paranoia about 'Colic'. Try Infacol (doesn't work). Try Gripe Water (seems to work sometimes). Try bouncing him like a nutter in his baby bouncer for an hour (works a treat). The Husband and I keep talking about going out on our own somewhere but with the unspoken agreement that it will never actually happen. The Health Visitor (scary pursed lips, talks in very rehearsed sentences like she's bored of repeating this crap over and over again) makes us paranoid about not winding him properly, and lectures me about not overdoing it. Yeah right, you do my hoovering then.
Second visit to the Clinic, Mother-in-Law comes along again, in fact I have been spending a lot of time with MIL and she is being a really great help, for someone to talk to as much as anything else. My mum is madly in love with Spawn and has probably by now kissed every part of his body and started teaching him the Cantonese for Grandma. Anyway I accidentally jump the queue at Clinic but nobody seems to mind. Nice Mum is there again and we get on great again. The Health Visitor asks if I want to go to Baby Massage classes next week. I don't think I do. This week we have a Very Bad Night with Spawn where I end up taking him in his basket downstairs and sleeping on the sofa so that the Husband can get some sleep before he goes to work. When Spawn shoots liquid poo half way across the bathroom I take him to see the doctor who says he's a bit dehydrated and takes a poo sample (the people who have to look at those have got a nice job eh?) but nothing's wrong and Spawn rallies the next day. He was just doing it to wind us up. We resolve to be firmer with him and show him who's boss.
Spawn still not feeling 100% like ours but we're getting there. I finally manage to stop reading the books and the panic dies down. The books were making it all much worse and Spawn and I are getting on a lot better without them. (To anyone else, I really do suggest reading as much as you can before your spawn arrives but just put them away afterwards, they will only make you feel paranoid and useless and upset you). Can't help the occasional sneaky peak just to make sure I'm not going completely off-track but each time I'm only reassuring myself that they don't help. We go to the Baby Massage classes, which I dismissed as hippy earth mother crap but which are actually a bit of a laugh once everyone relaxes. Nice Mum from the clinic is there too. All the mums use it as an excuse to have a good natter. My mum has started buying us baby wipes whenever she sees them, we now have the EU baby wipe mountain stored in our bathroom, Spawn's bedroom, the cupboard on the stairs, the change bag.... BUT she also buys us a big box of disposable latex gloves from the boot sale/market, like the ones you get in boxes of home hair dyes. At first I thought "for crying out loud, I'm never going to use these," but they are BRILLIANT. When you're having to get into crevices filled with stinking yellow poo armed with nothing more than a baby wipe, believe me, you'll be glad you were wearing gloves. Oh, and if you can, use scented wipes. Perfume-free ones just mean you have to endure the smell of shit for longer. Don't believe anyone who says breastfed baby poo doesn't smell.
Spawn is finally smiling at me. He's also taking an interest in his toys and in the black and white cards I made up for him. I'm not sure when this started happening but it is quite nice. Baby massage is the only thing anchoring the week for me - without it I have no idea what day it is or what I'm supposed to be doing and when. A trip to Tesco is probably the highlight of my week, and I can go a whole day without setting foot out of the house, literally - not even into the garden. Don't ask me what I'm doing on those days, I haven't got a clue. I know that I wake up with ideas for walks, or trips to see this person or go to this place, and then I start the feed-Spawn-change-Spawn-pacify-Spawn treadmill and next thing I know it's 4 o'clock in the afternoon.
Spawn had his first lot of jabs, and slept for 12 hours after the dose of Calpol. Am tempted to give it to him every night but resist the urge. Suddenly this becomes the worst week in the history of weeks. First the Husband's auntie dies, and the Mother-in-Law is devastated (her sister). At the end of this week my mum dies. I can't say anything more about that at the moment. Another time. I took Spawn round to see her 3 days before she died, thank God. I wish it had been the day before.
Unexpected benefit of giving Spawn formula as well as breast feeding - means I can let the Mother-in-Law look after him most of the day while I get things sorted out for mum with my stepdad. I am living a nightmare. We had just put the baby cards from everyone away, they are now all replaced with sympathy and Thinking of You cards. Every one of them makes me cry.
I'm phasing the breastfeeding out, I've had enough of it now. I think I probably needed someone to show me how to do it exactly right, because Spawn and I have been fighting each other a lot recently. I've not had any of the problems some people have, with pain or things cracking or getting blocked up or bleeding (groo! By the way - Boots Expert Lanolin Soothing Nipple Cream after every feed probably went a long way to helping me there, everything is still soft and pink and it's cheaper than the branded stuff) but neither of us are enjoying it any more so bottles it is. But you have to reduce breastfeeds gradually or your boobs explode. The Husband's birthday, he gets his first Dad birthday card and we go on a day trip - London to Brighton with 2000 other Minis. Spawn behaves beautifully. We buy him a babygro with a Mini on it as a reward. However, putting a baby sling on is not as easy as you might think - putting a parachute on as your plane hurtles towards the ground would be marginally easier. I tell the Health Visitor about mum and she gives me a big hug and nearly makes me cry again. She keeps telling me to look after myself. Mum's funeral - MIL is looking after Spawn and he screams blue murder at the start but eventually calms down.
The Husband's auntie's funeral - Spawn behaves beautifully again. The vicar forgets that he has a funeral to do this morning, the hearse is sat outside while people run around the village to find him. Eventually he comes rushing in 30 minutes late wearing biker boots and getting his words mixed up. Midweek I meet up with the daughter of one of the women from work who had her baby 6 weeks before me, we sit in a coffee shop all afternoon with prams and change bags and babies and bottles spread out everywhere, and have a really good natter. We end up in the Early Learning Centre playing with all the toys while the babies ignore everything. My friend from university comes to visit and brings her 18-month-old daughter with her, whom I have to steer away from the cat litter tray that she has been happily mixing with the cat biscuits by hand. Make a million mental notes for when Spawn is that age. I can't imagine Spawn getting to that age, it's impossible to picture him running around and talking and having a conversation with me.
Spawn's second lot of jabs. He screams the place down and I feel like a complete bastard for holding him down while they are done. But he forgets about them within 5 minutes and sleeps for 13 hours following the dose of Calpol (which he hates by the way). The temptation is there again... the Husband is thinking the same thing and we both have to resist. I keep running into Nice Mum wherever I go and we're starting to become pretty friendly. I must make sure I don't screw it up by moaning too much or being weird. One of the Sister-in-Laws has an impromptu barbecue and asks us over right before Spawn's bath-bottle-bed merry-go-round begins. We debate it and decide to go as soon as he's had his bottle, reasoning that he'll just go straight to sleep. We get to Sister in Law's and there are a dozen teenagers playing loud music and football in the garden and pulling Spawn's covers off to 'have a look at him' and we park his pram downwind from the barbecue so the smoke is billowing over him. He goes berserk. We leave. He is so unreasonable sometimes.

Now Known As... Postnatal Oppression

2007-06-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

Now then, where was I?

Ah yes. So I had a baby, and 12 weeks seem to have whooshed past me without so much as a by-your-leave. Well, well, well, having a baby eh? Do you want the good stuff, or the horrible stuff? Let's do a bit of both.

First of all though, I will quickly go over the first day.

I highly recommend having your spawn in hospital, because you get cups of tea and a mountain of toast to eat straight after you've had it. And a free bottle of Top-to-Toe wash (smells very nice to my nose; to the Husband (who hates it)'s nose it smells "like man-juice") to have your shower with.

God, that first shower - it was rather worse than the Psycho scene, and I was concerned about my wibbly wobbly stomach. It was really soft, like a barely-set jelly. But at least my belly button seemed to have decided it was going to stay an Inny after all. Also I was aware of an unusual... erm... draft where, let's just say, the door hadn't quite pushed closed yet. And I don't mean the bathroom door.

I got wheeled up to the ward with the Spawn in my arms still scowling furiously at me and the Husband staggering along beside. There were only 2 other women in there with me, both of whom had had c-sections I gathered. Once the Husband cleared off, I spent a while having a chat with the Spawn and explaining how things were going to work, and examining the bag of free stuff I'd been given (Fruit Flakes - nicer than they sound). I had dinner, then read my book a bit, and Spawn slept happily in his goldfish tank. During the night, he was the very best behaved baby on the ward - if it wasn't the one next to me screaming, it was the one opposite; and when the babies were quiet it was the other mums buzzing for the midwives. Spawn did puke once, so I had to do a bit of summoning myself. Safe to say, I got about 2 hours' sleep.

The next morning, I had a bit of brekkie and so did Spawn, and we blundered through our first nappy change together. He was very patient with me, looking very philosophic while I worked out that the picture goes on the front. Just as I got it in place, he produced a big black slug and I realised that I hadn't brought in any sort of baby wipe things with me (I'd had to use the free nappy out of the goody bag as well). Midwives to the rescue again, this time a whole pack of wipes smelling of baby lotion, and a stack of nappies. See, who says you need to bring all that stuff in with you? Rubbish. All you need is a book and a Mars Bar.

There were various people who kept coming round to poke at Spawn:

the paediatrician, a very nervous young girl who had clearly just qualified. Every time he squawked, she jumped, and her hands were actually shaking. When she tried to look in his eyes, he screwed them up as tight as he could, and no amount of prising, blowing and begging on her behalf was going to change his mind.

the Is-Your-Baby-Deaf girl, who again seemed a bit unsure of herself and didn't know how to work her laptop.

the Bounty Woman (why they were all women I'm not sure. Has the male-to-female ratio gone wrong? It bodes well for Spawn's future, all these ladies to choose from) who, sadly, did not come bearing chocolate-covered coconut. Bounty are the ones who give you the free stuff in the bags, and they also take a photo of your nipper in the hospital where they hope you'll be so brimming over with irrational hormones and high from delivery drugs that you'll buy anything. Spawn looked like Les Dawson in the first photo she took. She frowned and said "Erm, let's do another one shall we?" This time, he looked like an angry gnome. I'm not blind, there was no way I was parting with cash for that.

I only stayed until midday, then I was outta there. I carried Spawn out wrapped up in a blanket (we left behind his little woolly hat, I wasn't sure if we were allowed to take it so I left it behind. Plus it had all bloodstains and goo on it) and the Husband had to carry all the bags (my bag, Spawn's bag, two and a half bags of free stuff).

Things to note about the hospital:

They didn't show me how to do anything with Spawn. Not one thing - not a nappy change, not how to bath him, not how to feed him or dress him, nothing. In fact no-one asked me if I wanted to bath him, so I didn't.

They didn't want to check that we had a car seat for him. We got one that stays in the car, so we weren't carrying him out in a seat, but no-one asked us how we were getting him home, or wanted to check to make sure it was fitted ok. As far as they knew, we could have been slinging him in a sidecar on our motorbike.

The food wasn't that bad.

When we got home, the cats were not in the slightest bit interested, apart from one of them who briefly licked Spawn's head as he went past. Then it must have been all of 20 seconds before the Mother in Law arrived, along with a Sister in Law. There was much cooing and holding and examining of Spawn, while the Husband and I ran around putting things away and making cups of tea for everyone.

Once they'd cleared off, we showed him around the house, and then ran him a bath. Using the highly scientific bath thermometer, the Husband got it to the exact recommended temperature, and we popped Spawn in. He SCREAMED the house down.
We looked at each other with white faces. I put my hand in. "It's bloody freezing!"
After a short argument about the bath thermometer versus my hand, I spectated the bath through my fingers from the door while the Husband persevered with Spawn...

We got him dressed and in his basket, then went downstairs to find that the monitor we'd been given by my stepdad wouldn't work properly, it kept turning itself on then off then on then off again. Of course, each time it turned on, Spawn was screaming. After half an hour of racing up and down the stairs and cursing the monitor, we turned it off and just kept the door open. Eventually Spawn fell properly asleep and we tried to eat our dinner. It felt like eating lumps of sawdust and we sat side by side on the sofa, quivering and on the verge of tears. We kept reassuring each other that it could have been worse, that we'd managed to have a meal and he was asleep and it was only 8 o'clock. (But not much worse). We both felt very small and scared and we held hands hoping someone would come along to take us away from it all.

When we went to bed, I'd had the night in the hospital with Spawn so I knew that he made lots of whistling and squeaking noises while he slept, whereas it was the Husband's first night and he kept jumping up to check on him. It was his turn to get just 2 hours of sleep. However, I woke up at about 5am with my mind racing, which is when I updated this blog with the birth entry.

All in all, I would say that our first day at home was hell on toast. It wasn't Spawn's fault, he was just as confused as we were. But I was really pissed off at having to run around after guests when I'd literally been home not even an hour and I'd just given birth, and they hadn't offered to help either. We hadn't a clue what we were supposed to be doing with him and I felt really sad about taking him away from his first bed (the hospital goldfish tank) which he'd really liked, and he didn't seem to like the one we'd bought him. Those hospital ones are brilliant, you can see them when they're lying in it, and they tilt up if you need to raise their heads (e.g. if they keep puking), and they rock backwards and forwards gently, and they have a handy cupboard and shelf underneath. I need to see if I can find one on ebay.

Other things I recommend:

disposable knickers. Not glamorous, but saves you ruining your smalls, or having to put a wash on as soon as you get home

Tesco big thick maternity pads - nice and comfy

Bio Oil - I have not one stretch mark. (Well, none from pregnancy anyway).

Summer video baby monitor (which we went out and bought from Argos the very next day).

"Quickly" go over the first day? God I do go on.

2007-05-26T07:34:00.001-07:00

Hello... anybody still there?

I will update this soon I promise.. I need to think of a new title first.

A lot has happened in 10 short weeks.

2007-03-14T04:37:00.000-07:00

D-DAY!

I’m going to write this while I can still remember it all, as everyone tells me that I will soon forget. Although to be frank, how anyone could ever forget it is incredible.

The paracetamol helped a bit, but then I realised I’d only got enough left for 2 doses. I sent the Husband a text asking if we had a stopwatch and got a phonecall back immediately. “Are you alright? Shall I come home?” I reassured him again, but asked that he bring paracetamol with him when he finished his shift. It dawned on me that I might be going to hospital tonight, so I spent the next couple of hours solemnly putting a couple of bags of stuff together, feeling rather small and scared.

At about 10.30 the Mother in Law Cavalry arrived, bringing paracetamol with her. She stayed with me through what quite clearly were now contractions, coming every 7-ish minutes and lasting about 30-odd seconds. We watched Al Murray’s Happy Hour and Memoirs of a Geisha, trying to take my mind off things. And I got what must have been this here Show business (like no Business I know… Now gents, it’s going to get yucky) which looked at first like the end of a period (brown) and then like a big glob of catarrh with brown wiggles through it.

I rang the Labour Ward at around 11am, describing things to them and asking a bit of advice, and was told that paracetamol was fine, and a warm bath might help. The husband rang at the end of his shift to ask if I needed anything else, so I asked for chocolate and plaintively whined “You are coming home aren’t you? You’re not going to be late?”

At the change of the keeping-me-company guard, I was so relieved to have the Husband home. The show kept coming (blob… blob…) but as far as I could tell, my waters hadn’t broken. We had dinner and a bath, and I suddenly found that the contractions had slowed right down, to about 12 - 15 minutes apart, and lasting less than 30 seconds. While it was a welcome relief, it was also annoying as it meant that things weren’t going to happen that night. I accepted it all and off we went to bed again. The Husband was a star, rubbing my back and stroking my hand each time it got uncomfortable.

4am again, Monday morning – BANG – a big one. I hobbled quickly to the loo, expecting to see lots of dampness, but still no waters. They started coming quicker – 10 minutes, for 40 seconds. 8 minutes, for a minute. 4 and a half minutes, for 45 seconds. Then messed around again – nothing for 10 minutes, with a little piddly 25 second one. However, by 6am they were consistently 4 minutes, and about 45 seconds. I rang the Delivery Hotline and told them that I was feeling quite shaky now and could I Please come in? I was also worrying that if we left it any later, we’d get stuck in Monday morning traffic going through town, and this was getting to be no laughing matter. What worried me was, if this was how it felt and I had only just started, what lay ahead? Could I cope with it? The Husband reminded me that they have drugs at the hospital to help you with this, and I felt a tiny bit happier.

We got there at about 7am – the Husband was definitely not Observing the Speed Limits, but it was quiet and no-one seemed to mind. We’ve got a spongey Citroen which normally soaks up bumps in the road like a dream, but that was one hugely uncomfortable journey. And just to rub salt in, there’s an enormous speed bump right outside the maternity unit.

We were shown straight into a delivery room, which I was thankful for – I was worried that they would tell me I was making a fuss about nothing and make me wait somewhere with a load of other women going through the same thing. My first midwife Jillian checked me over, and most importantly did an internal exam and told me I was 4cm dilated. Thank F***, was all I could think. I had been dreading them telling me I was only 1cm or something, after all I’d gone through on Sunday.

She also told me that baby had recently pooed in me – and showed me the now green catarrhy stff, urgh – and that she couldn’t feel any membranes. This meant, one, that my waters had gone, but no-one knew when. Because his head was so low, it had either been trickling out gently unnoticed over the past who knew how long, or it had gone when I’d gone to the loo first thing this morning and I just hadn’t noticed – there wouldn’t have been a big rush, as his head was corking it all in. Two, that at one point he’d decided he wasn’t happy, hence the poo. Three, I thus had to be monitored the whole way through, which also meant, Four, I couldn’t use a bath or a birthing pool. Oh, and Five, I had to have some antibiotics on a drip in case his poo poisoned me. The dirty little monkey.

So that was half of the birth plan out the window then. Good-o.

She got me started on the Entonox (Gas and Air), which was quite good fun, although I only seemed to feel the benefits of it once the contraction had passed. I told her this on one of her passes in and out of the room, and she demonstrated the sort of breathing I needed to get it into my system at the right time. The Husband reminded me that it was like a scuba diving regulator and that switched my brain on, because I had been trying to breathe in and out of my mouth instead of in with my mouth and out with my nose, and then we were flying. Being monitored was a bit of a pain as it meant I couldn’t move around, but I quickly found that moving around was the last thing I wanted to do – sitting very still, very upright was more my thang. The monitor also really helped the Husband as he could clearly see when another contraction was building up and kept telling me when to have a puff, even though I couldn’t feel them coming yet he was always spot on, so I was experiencing the very strange sensation of being deliciously high and in pain at the same time.

Things were going nicely until the pains changed – they got lower, and more all round rather than just in my back. At just after 11am Jillian came in to check me and was greeted by an almighty roar, which I was half-surprised to realise came from me. She had a look and told me I was 8 cm dilated, asked me if I wanted any Pethidine, and that it would take about 20 minutes to kick in. I told her I wasn’t sure – depending on when they thought I’d be done by, maybe. She estimated around 1.30pm, and suggested a half dose of it, which I gratefully accepted at about 11.20am. I hadn’t known it was an injection that they stuck in your leg.. must have zoned out during that part of antenatal classes. I heard myself mumbling “Just a little something.. to take the edge off,” as it kicked in.

Time whizzed by… I could feel that the pethidine was making me feel warm and sleepy in between the contractions, but it was a small island of calm that I was very grateful for each time. The midwives changed shift, and Linda introduced herself. Her surname was spelt the same way as ours, she used to live in the same road as us and her son’s a police officer, so we were pretty much family from the word go. Thank god for that, because she got to see me as no-one else has ever done. I warn you now, if you don’t want to read the full-on gory details, stop here, and start again after the asterisks.

************************************************************************

It was getting unreal now. I kept wanting to poo but I was afraid to – I’m sorry to say, nothing was going to stop that happening, and every now and then I felt gentle hands wiping away little bits, for which I apologised profusely and got told off for apologising. Linda made me get up and go to the loo, telling me that if I needed to wee, my bladder would block the baby’s head from moving past. I sat on the loo with her in the bathroom with me during a contraction but just nothing was coming out, so we gave up on that idea and I somehow made it back to the bed. I couldn’t get on in time for the next contraction though, so with the poor Husband bracing my arms from that side, and the midwife trying to support my legs, I heaved. My legs buckled under me at the end each time, and poor Linda kept having to get lower and lower to see what was happening, actually ending up on the floor on her back like she was inspecting the exhaust of a Ford Mondeo.

I think that did it for her because somehow she and the Husband got me back on the bed. I had a quick gasped conversation with her between contractions. “I’m really scared to push,” I said.
“You have to. You’re doing so well, you’ve just got to move him down” she replied
“I don’t think I’m doing it right… I don’t know that I can do it.”
“You can! You need to get angry though – don’t shout it all away.”
I remember wondering why my legs were being forced into this frog position, one each by her and the Husband. “This wasn’t how I’d planned it” drifted through my mind.
The next few contractions felt like I was crapping for England – it honestly felt like nothing to do with my women’s bits at all, just like I was really really going to have to poo him out. I kept being told not to shout, and to just use the breath to push. When I finally started listening, and realised about the sensation being a pooing one, Linda said “He’s got loads of hair! It’s really dark!” But how long was it going to take, I thought? Hair or not, he could be still miles away.
“I can’t do it!” I nearly sobbed.
“You are doing it! Get mad!”
“Remember when I missed the Christmas dinner!” the Husband’s voice floated over.
Oh yes I did - that helped a lot, actually, because Linda suddenly said “Give me your hand,” and I looked up at her in a mist. She grabbed my right hand from the Husband and shoved it under my bum. “That’s your son’s head.”
That did it. Now I knew where he was, he was bloody well coming out. I could see there was another midwife from out of nowhere and heard snatches (no pun intended) of conversation. “She’s got incredibly strong stomach muscles,” “Is this her first one?” “Yep – we’re gonna have to catch him when she shoots him out.”
“OK – I’m going to try on the next one,” I muttered.
Linda armlocked me. Here we go… She stared into my eyes “I need you to stop pushing now and pant, just like me.” I did as I was told.
“Andrew do you want to have a look?!” she said.
“No!” I panicked – a tiny bit of me remembering that I didn’t want him to see, but mostly I couldn’t bear to let him go, not right now.
After what seemed like an hour and what felt like a white-hot burning, everyone shouted “That’s the head!” I looked down and could see a tiny face. “It’s really small,” I gasped. I thought, “Where’s the rest then? I thought it was all supposed to flob out in one go?” (Later the Husband told me that his head was literally only just out, he hadn’t turned at that point which is why he must have looked small from where I was) No, that came with the next push. Still very hard, but now I had a purpose it was better. There was a sudden rush of warmth and he was out! They lifted him up and there was an actual baby, who started yelling the place down. “Do you want him?”
“Oh – yes!” I gasped. He was plonked onto me, hot and a bit wet but not slimy, and with none of that greasy stuff on him.
“I can’t believe it,” I said. I looked at the Husband. “I can’t believe I did it,” I laughed.
The baby kept yelling his thoughts on the whole subject. I looked into his face and after a minute he calmed down and looked back at me with an intense scowl.

About 5 minutes went by, and the paediatrician (who’d just popped in) took the baby over to the grilling table thing they put them on to keep them warm while she checked him over. The two midwives were discussing the placenta. “Is it almost out? It is.” They both turned to me. “It looks like you’re going to deliver the placenta naturally, so we’re going to help you do it.”
The one who’d appeared out of nowhere was called Sue. She started directing things. “I’m going to push down hard on your tummy, and I need you to push when you feel the contractions.” Eh? Why are there more contractions? I’ve had the baby…. Oh right, I see…
Unfortunately her pushing like she was kneeding the world’s biggest loaf made my bladder start working, and there was not one single thing I could do about it. “I’m so sorry,” I gasped, and got told off again for apologizing. “That means it’s working,” Sue said sternly. Another big-poo-sensation again, and this time a feeling like someone had emptied hot jelly under my bum. I wanted to have a look at it, so Linda showed it to me. It was enormous! They really seemed to like it as it was in one gigantic piece, and the wee had washed it all clean for them so they could check it easily. I could see the cord attached to it and everything - a nice Biology lesson there just at the end of everything else. Every day is a school day, let us not forget that.

Sue then checked me and told me that I had got a very small tear, which she would prefer to stitch. “I could leave it to heal naturally,” she was telling Linda, who seemed to be being taught this part (fine with me), “but this way we can make sure it’ll heal in a perfect straight line and we’ll have an intact perineum.” For the next few minutes she did a beautiful bit of embroidery, all the while explaining the technique to Linda. “No stitching your initials in there,” I warned.

************************************************************************

And before we knew it, they had handed our baby back to me, and he was going for his life on my boob. Fair enough mate, after what he’d just had to go through it only seemed fair. I was told how much he weighed and I asked what time he’d been born – it had taken me just over an hour to push him out, which I kept being told was amazing for my first one, although it didn’t feel amazing or fast. I was also told that they very rarely get to see a Natural Third Stage, ie someone just delivering the placenta on their own – normally they have to give you an injection to make it come out a bit quicker – so they were thrilled with that. I kept being asked if I did aerobics – something to do with my excellent stomach muscles, they said. I know this all sounds like I’m being a bit ooh-get-me, but I bloody deserve it.

Austin Andrew Humphreys
12th March 2007 14:49 (A Pisces like Einstein, not an Aries like Hitler)
7lbs 3 1/2 oz (3.282 kg)

2007-03-10T21:37:00.000-08:00

THINGS are starting to happen.

I went to see the midwife during the week, who told me that my blood pressure and wee were "lovely". Then she had a feel of my belly and said "Oooh."
"Oooh?" I replied.
"His head's 3/5ths engaged.. I can't get a hand in there." She measured me with the tape measure. "Oooh yes. How far along are you?" she asked suspiciously.
This was a trick question I'm sure. "You just said I was 38 weeks."
She nodded. "You're 37 centimetres now. It definitely won't be long." As she finished up my notes she said briskly "Well, I'm on a study week next week, so I won't see you then. The next time I see you will be with Baby, so good luck, remember to keep as mobile as possible, don't let anyone do anything to you without your permission first." Having realised that was that, I gathered up my coat and bag and wandered out of the room feeling rather bewildered.

What? Eh? 3/5ths? How far in does this head have to be then? Does it need to be 5/5ths, or is 3/5ths enough? Everyone I asked said, "Ah yes - with second babies, the head very often doesn't engage at all." But this is my first. "Erm... not sure" came the standard reply.

What about 37 cms? "Erm... dunno."

Keep as mobile as possible? At first I thought she meant just generally, in life - which was fine - I'm active, I'll normally take the stairs rather than the lift, I like a nice walk, I try and exercise regularly. Then it occurred to me that she was talking about Labour. Hmmm.

I'd asked her about a bad backache that had woken me during the night. When I described it, (lower back, crampy, lasted for about a minute and then faded off, returned about 4 times over an hour and then just went away) she said "It was one of two things. Either it was your body having a practice run at going into labour, or you'd slept funny and woke up in an uncomfortable position. I would say it was the latter, seeing as you didn't actually go into labour." Funny sleeping position? Well all I can say is you weren't there, and it was no funny sleeping position.

This week, I have had odd squeezings and aches going on, none of which have hurt but they have made me pause, or shift about. I am assuming these are the famous Braxton Hicks contractions everyone is so keen to ask about. To be honest though, it could just old fatty Spawn shifting position, now that he's so scrunched up in there I expect it's quite a job to move around. I've also been waking up extremely early (for instance I've been awake since 4am today) and unable to doze back off. And yes, I have done a lot of cleaning and tidying. But not from any insatiable desire, it just needed doing and when else am I going to get the chance? Does that count as nesting? I thought nesting would be some obsessional need to do stuff, not just thinking "This place is a mess, I'd better get the hoover out."

And now today the backache is back. I had it last night when I went to bed, but ignored it and it went away and I went to sleep. Then around 4am - bink - it was back. The poor Husband was getting up to go to work at half four, so I lay there quietly without waking him and let the backache come and go. Which it did regularly, at dead on ten minute intervals.

After an hour of this fun and games (during which the Husband has gone off to work - I did tell him about it but reassured him that I'm fine) I'd had enough lying down waiting, so here I am, up before the birdies, trying to work out how long these backaches are taking, and how far apart they are. The Interweb tells me I have nothing to worry about yet because I haven't had a Show (jelly blob in my pants rather than No-Business-Like-Show-Business kind of show) and my waters haven't broken, and to just ignore it. Right you are.

Now I'm not saying they are, but IF they are the real deal, they don't feel like what I thought they would. I've read that they're like period pains, but this seems to be more round the back than a period pain. It's a very intense squeezing like when you've eaten something very dodgy and it's making its bid for freedom but you're not at the toilet yet, combined a bit with a period pain. I can feel it starting, then it sort of builds up and then subsides, and when it's stopped I'm completely fine again. I keep trying not to look at the clock in case it's just me being silly and thinking they're happening at set intervals, and by clock-watching I'm bringing them on subconciously.

http://www.online-stopwatch.com/

Sod this, I'm going for some breakfast and a paracetamol.

2007-03-09T09:26:00.000-08:00

I'm in trouble...

OK what happened was: I was upstairs in the study, sorting stuff out in there today (I was NOT nesting, I completely deny any suggestion to the contrary. Yes, I completely refiled about 5 years worth of bank statements, tax documents, payslips, work correspondence etc, and yes everything is a lot tidier and more accessible, but that's just sensible planning. Not nesting) and while I was doing all that I was lonely and wanted the cats to keep me company. Normally, they are not allowed upstairs, but I thought it would be alright just this once.

Before I knew it, the Husband came home from work and found Carrot (or Mister C as he likes to be known) asleep in the brand new, unwrapped bassinet that the spawn is supposed to sleep in (when he finally deigns to put in an appearance). He was sort of suspended above it as he was asleep on the plastic. I laughed lots until the husband threatened to tell on me to our mums and everyone else who has warned me that cats sleep on babies.

This is why the cats aren't allowed upstairs.

2007-03-06T02:31:00.000-08:00

There are some very strange people in this world.

Now please don't think I'm being pretend-modest here, or fishing for compliments/sympathy, or any crap like that, because I don't do that, and I don't particularly care either way. But objectively, I am not the kind of female who normally generates second looks or comments from the kind of men who think they have to comment on women.

Having said that, I have found that being pregnant I have attracted attention. And not just "oh-look-she's-got-a-fat-belly-oh-she-must-be-pregnant" kind of attention. I mean male looky-up-and-down, leering kind of attention; smiles and winks; whistles and comments. And it doesn't seem to matter whether I'm wearing slinky stretchy clothing or ginormous t-shirts, jeans and trainers. What is going on? Do they all have a Mummy fixation? Is it the large boobs? Or the fact that I've clearly Done Sex at least once? I'm not saying I mind at all, but it is slightly disturbing.

I have been reading a few babycare books that people have given to me. The main things I have learnt are:

The best way to rear your baby is with Nazi-style drills with Reveille first thing in the morning, Von Trapp whistles and marching. When they're older you can give them syrup of figs for the constipation, and the unusual sexual preferences are pretty much the norm now anyway.
The best way to rear your baby is with hippy-style no attempts to rear them at all, let them do whatever they want whenever they want and deal with the consequences in eighteen years when you're outside the town hall shouting up through a megaphone explaining that really they ought to put the rifle down now, but of course it's their choice.

I'm also doing my best to dodge the cults. It's started already - the 'well-meaning' "advice", the Hints and Tips leaflets, the tales of how well it works for them and their families... it's like having Jehovah's Witnesses leaping out on you in the supermarket, Mormons sending links to websites to your personal email, Scientologists sending you stuff in the post, and born-agains on every street, shop counter, car park and relative's house, all rolled into one.

Listen people, if I want advice, I'll ask for it. And, I know how to read! (Even if I say so myself, I'm really quite good at reading). So if I want to read something, I'll fetch it myself. And if I want to know how YOU did something with YOUR kid, I'll ask that as well. Otherwise, can we start with the assumption that I don't give a crap about your methods, and that you're going to sod off and leave me alone? Wonderful, thank you so much.

2007-02-28T07:42:00.000-08:00

Just a quick one today - I am now Retired! Hussah! Last day of work was last Thursday. So far, I have done sod all constructive with my time.

An interesting point - I was discussing with the husband the other day, about whether he wanted to Cut The Cord. He is not fussed about it. "What's the big deal?" he asked.
"Well, it's meant to be symbolic I suppose," I replied. "You're the one setting it free, bringing it into the world."
"Hmph what a load of crap," he said.
"Well anyway I don't want you seeing it coming out," I told him. "Erm - unless you really want to?" It suddenly occurred to me that he actually might have wanted to.
"Well..."
"But I don't want you thinking of me like that," I said. "It's not something you can un-see once you've seen it, and the next time you're down there, I don't want that to be going through your mind."
He looked up from Top Gear magazine. "If you really think that would stop me going back in, you don't know me very well," he grinned.

We shall see. But I am sticking to my guns on this one.

A last, worrying, point: I think it's got lower. I'm uncomfortable right at the part where my legs join onto me. Like something's lodged behind (as in a HEAD)...

2007-02-19T09:44:00.000-08:00

Sorry I haven't been keeping up to date with this blogging malarkey. But then, I know no-one's reading it, so I'm not really that sorry.

A couple of weeks ago I had yet another check-up with Dr. Onymous as the midwife was on holiday again. This time, I was the one who let us both down - I'd forgotten my notes and I hadn't wee'd in a pot. He didn't seem that bothered, in fact he seemed quite pleased that he didn't have to do anything as disgusting as look at my wee. We chatted a bit about my mum (who's managed to get shingles) and the weather, he wrote some stuff down on my medical notes that the surgery have, for the look of it really as he didn't want me to bring in the maternity ones later, and then I toddled off. I've said it before and I'll say it again, blind leading the blind...

Today I had my last scan, to determine whether or not my placenta's moved. It seems very weird to talk about 'my' placenta. This large lumpy organ, which I personally have grown, and which I'll get to meet later on - how weird is that? Don't get me wrong, I'm not keeping it or eating it or anything revolting like that. Anyway, the scan was over and done with in minutes - the sonographer was the same one from my very first scan, and she was pleasant enough, but I couldn't see the screen properly so every time she pointed something out I couldn't crane my neck quickly enough before she moved onto something else. All I could make out was that Spawn seemed to be quite squashed up in there, and was fast asleep. I did get told that he had a very full bladder though, and that the placenta was alright now.

I felt mixed emotions about this - it means that at the moment, I'm good to go for a normal delivery, ie, they don't see any reason why I'd need a c-section unless things go to cock on the day. So I'm most likely going to experience 'proper' labour then. More on this in a bit...

When I came out of the hospital, I suddenly got very upset - the sonographer hadn't asked me if I wanted a picture, and I hadn't thought to ask for one at the beginning, so it was too late once she'd finished. I came out feeling sticky from the blue jelly, and very rushed and unloved, and with nothing to show the husband. I rang his mobile, and he did a good job of cheering me up, even though he was in the middle of Official Police Business. He said that he hadn't thought we were going to get a picture today, and that we probably couldn't see anything much anyway seeing as the spawn was so scrunched up.

So back to Labour then. I have a few points I want to raise on this subject:

Why will no-one tell me honestly what it feels like? I feel that, the one thing that binds all mothers together, is this common experience of childbirth. This silvery, intangible thread joining us all together, for thousands of years, uniting not just humans, but all females from the dawn of time itself. So how come not one of the bitches will tell me what happens? All I'm getting is the odd comment, dropped in the middle of random conversations. "I was only four hours with my first one," doesn't exactly make things any clearer.
There has been the odd suggestion that none of them can actually remember what it was like. I get the impression that Nature is either very cruel or very kind, and as soon as you've got this thing out of you, it gives you amnesia - otherwise I wonder how many women would go through it all again...? "You forget all about it as soon as you've got your baby," one friend told me. Hmmm. We'll see. I will be documenting everything on here for future reference. The women who come after me need me to do this.
In some ways, I am looking forward to it, so I can finally know what it's all about. It is like this big secret (that no-one talks about, because they can't remember) and you only get let in on it if you join their club. I wonder if soldiers who have fought in battles feel similar? A world you could never imagine if you have never experienced it for yourself, and you can't explain to someone who's never been through it. Am I going to have the mysteries of the universe revealed to me at last?
In other ways, I am TOTALLY cacking myself. How in the hell am I actually going to get this thing out of me? It's a really big lump now. I tried to ask the husband this. I pointed out to him the size of the intended exit relative to the size of the lump (I turned side-on at one point, for purposes of demonstration), and that the two were not even closely matched shape-wise, let alone anything else. He found the whole conversation stomach-clenchingly, tear-streamingly funny. Nobody seems to be overly concerned about this apart from me - I keep being told "Well, it's too late to worry about that now," or "Oh you'll be just fine!" I bloody won't. We're looking at serious amounts of pain here people... I can't bear to even think about it.

2007-02-03T07:42:00.000-08:00

I am Gigantasaurus Rex. The belly looks like a basketball with legs. The annoying thing is that everything fits until it comes to doing it up over my waist or boobs. Anything with a waistband slides down my bum so that I have to walk along like a cowboy who's just dismounted, hoiking everything back up.

We went to see the labour ward. The midwife collected us from the entrance to the maternity wing, then showed us into a smallish room with a bed and an enormous oval bath in it. There were also lots of bits of machinery and equipment and tubes everywhere.

She began by moving parts of the bed up and down and dismantling it, to show 'how easily' they can get to your business end when they need to. The gas and air hoses were pointed out, as were the monitors and some other stuff that I'd stopped looking at. It was all done in the way torturers show their victims the equipment they're going to use on them beforehand, with probably about the same amount of relish. The enormous bath is what you can use if you want to have a water birth, although the midwife said that you have to get out of it to deliver the placenta (groo). This thing is easily 3 foot high, 7 foot long, smooth-sided, with no visible means of climbing out, so I take it they get their own back on you wanting a water birth by laughing at you struggling with your arse-end on fire, falling out of the bath and breaking your neck. Suddenly she asked us "What's missing from this room?" The husband and I looked at each other panic-stricken, then around at all the machinery, then back at the midwife blankly. "I didn't know there was going to be a test," he protested.
"A cot," was the answer. Oh right, yeah. Oops. "We're so not ready for this," the husband murmured to me.

After this, she whisked us round the postnatal ward so she could show us where we'd be once I'd got the spawn out. I have no intention of being there, I am planning on coming home the very second I'm allowed to. The ward is divided up into little sections - one for women whose babies have had to go to special care, one for ones who haven't had their babies yet, and everyone else. As we were leaving, this poor girl in her pyjamas and dressing gown got wheeled past us into the special care section. She looked like she'd seen the entrance to Hell, with tears and snot still damp on her face and her hair everywhere. There but for the grace of God...

Last antenatal class! Blimey that's gone quickly. I shall miss skiving off work for them.
This one was the one where they're supposed to explain what you actually do with this thing once it's out in the world. Thus, lots and lots and LOTS of lecturing about breastfeeding (blah blah blah yackety schmackety) although she didn't give anyone thinking of bottlefeeding a hard time, and she did acknowledge that doing it "naturally" is really bloody painful and tiring, no matter what all the hippies say. A few hints and tips about nappies, and then a doll in a plastic cot and we had to say all the things wrong with how it had been put to sleep (not in a veterinary sense). A bit of information on cot death - she stressed how important it was not to let it get overheated, and everyone looked quite shocked when she told us how her own daughter had been too bundled up and had stopped breathing, as in those days the emphasis was on not letting babies get too cold. A brief reminder that she would be checking on our chosen method of contraception once we were at home (give us a bloody chance!) and a bit about postnatal depression (oh yay - something else to look forward to).

Finally, she asked if anyone had any more questions. To which the husband piped up with "Yes - can you make her pack her bag?" Everyone's eyes swivelled towards me.
"Haven't you done it yet?" the midwife asked accusingly.
I stopped staring open-mouthed at the husband and replied "No! Last week you said I didn't have to yet!"
Her eyes narrowed. "How far gone are you?"
"34 weeks now... you said I didn't have to worry about it for a couple of weeks..." Clearly once I'd reminded her of this, she'd be back on my side.
"Yes, but you haven't even bought the stuff to go in it yet," the betrayer added. "Shut up will you?" I hissed at him through my teeth.
"34 weeks! What happens if you go into early labour at 35 weeks? Which isn't uncommon," the midwife said sternly. The rest of the group were happily watching this entertaining exchange with expressions of amusement. I opened my mouth to defend myself again, but she glared at me. "Get your bag packed young lady."
I slumped down, with a sideways dagger glance at the husband. I don't know what all the fuss is about, I can sort everything out on the day. It's going to be hours before I have to worry about going into the hospital. And anyway, how much packing does a book and a Mars Bar take?

2007-01-25T11:33:00.000-08:00

Sooo.... I had an appointment with Dr. Onymous, as my midwife had had the nerve to go on holiday.
He seemed neither happy nor unhappy with the small urine sample I gave him, although he made a big show of washing the pot out and wrapping it carefully in tissues before he gave it back to me. After taking my blood pressure, he looked at me and then at my notes, as if one or the other would suggest something else for him to do.
"How many weeks are you now?" he asked.
"Erm - about 32 I think," I replied.
He looked sceptical, and reached into his drawer for the round plastic wheel thing they use to work out when you're due. It seemed to tell him the same thing. "Right. Everything OK?"
"Yes thanks," I replied.
He looked around his room for a second, then he suddenly thought of a way of making it look worth both our whiles my being there. "Would you like to hop up onto the bed and I'll measure you," he beamed. I 'hopped' up onto the bed and he produced the ubiquitous tape measure. "Yes, you're 32 centimetres," he agreed. Then he said "Although to be honest, I don't really see the point of this - it's going to be different on women with different builds, and 32cms on a six foot woman would be a different indicator than on someone who's 5 foot 2 surely." You tell me, pal. "But I have to do it, or the midwives tell me off," he confessed.

He then had a listen to the spawn's heartbeat, and a bit of a prod, and then said the most useful thing I've heard for a while, just as an afterthought - "He's the right way round, with his head down." It's amazing how they can tell these things. That was it really. It wasn't as pointless as I had been anticipating.

Today was the penultimate antenatal class - 'Abnormal Delivery'. There were only 6 of us today - Scandinavian Woman, Cats Bum Mouth, one of the single mums this time WITH dad (not the 'friend' who'd she arrived with at week 1) which she clearly wasn't too happy about, and me and the husband. Single Mum, it turned out, is due to have her baby in 5 days' time. She is skinny as a rake with just a pudding bowl bump, but the husband pointed out that she is also only about 20 years old.

The midwife went through the different components of labour (again) this time by putting coloured cards on the floor in the order that everything happens, with phrases like "***Painful***" and "HURTS!" on. Then she discussed things like induction, ventouse and forceps deliveries, and showed us a ventouse cap which didn't work, and the forceps, which looked massive. THEN she dragged the husband up to the front, put a hospital gown on him and a paper hat, pretend-attached a drip to him and shoved the baby doll up his gown, so she could go through caesarian sections with us, explaining the difference between elective (e.g. when the baby's breech, or you've got medical problems they know about beforehand which would mean you really would be better off not having a vaginal delivery), urgent and emergency. Urgent are the ones they decide to do when you're in labour and things are not going well, for whatever reasons. These are the ones that everyone likes to call emergency ones, whereas real emergency ones are rare.

She reckoned that from the time of first cut on the skin to the time the baby's out, is around 2 minutes! (At which point, she made a violent slashing motion over the husband's groin, which alarmed him, then yanked the baby doll out of the bottom of his gown, and shoved it down the top, for the "skin to skin contact"). They really don't piss about. I had a friend who was a trainee nurse, she watched a c-section as part of her training and said she couldn't believe how rough they were with the woman, really shoving and pulling. I suppose they feel they don't have time for niceties.

We had a bit of a question and answer session, from which I learned that I'm the only one not having to take iron tablets. Ha! (Well, yet, anyway). And the midwife told us that no matter what we thought was going to happen, she would make money if she put bets on us crapping ourselves during labour. And if you have a water birth, the crap will float to the top. One of the questions came from Single Mum's baby's dad, who asked how soon you could have sex again after the birth. The midwife said "As soon as she feels ready," and a very definite look of "Forget About It" crossed Single Mum's face. The midwife then added "but gentlemen wait until the placenta's been delivered." I like her lots.

We get to go and have a look around the labour ward on Sunday. The husband and I are going earlier than everyone else as he is working a late shift, and we're getting a personal guided tour with the midwife. It does mean that I can't have a lie-in on Sunday though.

Now, just a few points that I feel I must make:
1. Everyone keeps staring. I catch people doing double-takes, or talking to my belly. It's similar to wearing a low-cut top that shows your boobs off, although not as erotic. The husband says he has also noticed this - he reckons it's because I haven't really got bigger anywhere except my belly, so when I turn round or stand up, it catches them unawares. I suppose this means that I can't pretend no-one has noticed any more.

1a. Some people also stare at my boobs, which I have to admit are fairly sizeable now.

2. I am very tempted to make a sign for my desk at work with the following phrases on it:

I'm due in March.
No, it is not long to go now.
Yes it is my first.
No I am not 'all set' yet.
Yes I can register it myself.

Just to save myself 5 minutes each time I see anyone.

3. Despite my moaning, I am going to miss everyone being nice to me once the evil alien spawn is out of me. I have never really had this much niceness directed my way before. The head of our division of the county council was telling me that she believes it's because at a subconcious, primal level, society is trying to protect and nurture me as I am expanding the group. Hmmm.
I thanked the husband for being so nice to me the other night, and he replied "that's alright - I have to be, you're bigger than me now."

4. However cute it sounds, being kicked by the spawn is not entirely pleasant. I know that it's a good thing, it shows that it's moving around properly, blah blah blah, but sometimes the little bugger gets something wedged under my hip bone, or seems to be trying to stand up, or gets hiccups, and it's just bloody uncomfortable. I can't really lay back on the sofa, as I get stuck, and I can't bend in the middle so I can't reach for stuff any more. Also, the slightest thing seems to make it wake up at night, and then it decides to morris dance for half an hour or so. And the cat now prefers the husband's lap as there is more of it.

5. Buying baby stuff sucks. It's massively overpriced; there's a million different choices of just about anything you think of buying, all of which claim to be the absolute best one bar none, and I know I'm probably not going to use half of it; everything is in shit twee little patterns or vile colours or drowning in frills and lace and flounces. I got completely fed up with looking at moses baskets - what a pointless, stupid thing they are, I hate them so much, and yet you try and find something more sensible which isn't silly money or unbelievably ugly or doesn't take up so much room that you need to build an extension just to fit it in. The husband has completely refused to let me buy a dog basket for the evil alien spawn to sleep in. Also out are ironing baskets, drawers and cardboard boxes. I am in a sulk about the whole thing.

2007-01-14T02:22:00.000-08:00

Second antenatal class this week - "Normal Labour." There were only half as many of us this time: Cats-bum-mouth on her own, Scandinavian girl and her other half, and two of the single mums as well as me and the husband. We went over a few things that the midwife had actually told us last week, but either no-one wanted to appear rude or it was only me and the husband who realised.

The knitted uterus apparently makes an appearance in other antenatal classes - the woman in the Rough Guide to Pregnancy mentions it in her diary too. I wonder who knits these things, and do they all follow the same pattern?

Cats-bum-mouth and Scandinavian girl were talking about how nice it is that they can just eat whatever they want now they're pregnant and not have to think about it. Scandinavian girl was saying that she had been on a diet for most of her life so she was taking advantage of not having to worry about food. I really couldn't help thinking "Whatever diets you've been on love, they've clearly not helped," (she is a big girl) and I was thinking to myself about the paragraph in one of the books I was given that said expectant mothers only needed an extra 200 calories a day for the first couple of trimesters, rising to about 300 calories for the last one. Which is equivalent to a couple of pieces of toast. I noticed that the midwife didn't agree with what they were saying, she chose instead to remain tactfully quiet. I'm not saying that I have only had a couple of pieces of toast extra a day, just that I know what I should have been having. (Those chocolates went down very nicely).

Then the Scandinavian girl was really interested to learn about epidurals again - she is cacking herself. Her main reason for wanting one is that she's terrified she won't be able to cope with the pain. I was thinking "Oh come on, don't be such a wuss," I mean, how can she know that, and isn't it more likely that she'll be panicking and terrified if she assumes she will be right from the off? Not to say that I won't be, but if you start off with an epidural at the beginning, where do you have to run to ten hours later when you REALLY know that you can't cope?

We went over stuff to bring with us in a bag for labour, which mostly centred around making sure your partner has got stuff to eat. The husband perked up happily at this, especially at the midwife's suggestion that even if we don't want to eat when we're offered the hospital menu, to order something they'd like instead. One of the single mums (who had been irritating everyone by making stupid comments on everything the midwife had been saying) asked "Is it alright for someone to bring a McDonalds in for me?" at which point the husband snurfed with laughter and had to pretend he was coughing. The midwife kindly said that yes it was fine.

She then went over different positions for labouring in, none of which looked particularly inviting, and demonstrated the plusses and minuses of each one with a u-bend to represent the position of the birth canal in each one. They are so creative, these midwives, you have to hand it to them. The husband at this point had a relieved, smug expression on his face. I said "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" and he replied "Yep - s'not happening to me, I'm just there to be shouted at" and grinned widely. He also refused to let me use his knees to support myself if I chose to squat, or to hang off his shoulders in what looked like the drunken-slow-dance-in-a-nightclub position. And to grow a beard, which the little man on the diagram sheet had done.

Then, in the last half an hour of the class, something very strange happened. The bloke who was the Scandinavian girl's partner, suddenly decided to have a rant about the state of society - how when he was growing up, both his parents smoked and he and his siblings were fine, how no-one ever used to have asthma or allergies, how there was no discipline any more and if he wanted to hit his kids then no-one was going to stop him. Cats-bum-mouth and McDonalds girl joined in wholeheartedly, and suddenly there we were in the middle of a Klan meeting. The midwife kept trying to bring things back to safer subjects like perineums, but there was no stopping them. "My mum never..." "when I was a kid...." "Don't you agree that... " (this directed at the husband, him being a custodian of the law - he raised an eyebrow in reply and turned away). They then started on religion, asking the midwife if she agreed that it was all nonsense. Bearing in mind she'd mentioned that her mum is Irish Catholic, the poor woman's diplomacy was being stretched to the max (just like the perineums she'd described earlier). I did enjoy the Scandinavian girl's face when her partner was going on about hitting his kids though - the second he tries that little stunt, she's clearly going to rip his arm off and beat him to death with the soggy end.

It was just incredible. If it'd been in America they'd have been firing their guns into the air and whooping. I mean, the thread of the ideas you could understand, even if you wouldn't necessarily agree with them, but coming from such obviously ill-educated, ignorant people it was just alarming. When we came out, I told the husband I was going to ask the midwife if she'd got any other classes running in nicer areas that I could go to. He agreed, saying that some horrible mistake had obviously been made and we'd been given the 2-star class in error. We tried to feel bad about being so stuck-up and snobby, but sometimes you just know you're better than other people. More importantly, we could have gone home half an hour earlier if they hadn't been so bloody rabid.

We set up the cot and had a count-up of all the baby stuff we've got, and found that we've acquired 21 short-sleeved bodysuits and no long-sleeved ones. Hmm. Oh and we still haven't got anywhere to put Spawn to sleep when he first comes home - the drawer option is starting to look increasingly likely unless we get our act into gear. We really must get around to doing a list and buying some stuff.

2007-01-05T13:54:00.000-08:00

First Antenatal Class yesterday.

Or Parentcraft or something - I can't remember what I'm meant to call it now. Anyway - there are 4 of these, lasting for a couple of hours each. They're held at my local clinic, set in the middle of the Rough estate which my old comprehensive school is also set in. The husband remarked as we walked up to it, "Always nice to go to a clinic which has graffiti on the signs outside."

We were the first to arrive and were chatting away to the midwife, who remembered me this time (she'd only seen me two days before for more wee-looking (I peed in the pot, gross) and blood-pressure taking - she also wanted to listen to Spawn's heartbeat and he wasn't having that at all so she spent a couple of minutes chasing him around my belly, and she measured me with the tape measure again and I'm 29cm now, erm ok). Gradually everyone started to drift in - we had a couple of young single mums, one of whom looked like she was licking piss off a nettle (30 weeks?), one was wide-eyed and earnest (36 weeks? Can't remember); a slightly older (than us) bloke with a large younger girl with a Scandinavian accent who, from a few things she said later on looked like she'd totally signed up to the Earth Mother cult (34 weeks); another single mum who'd brought along 'a friend not the dad' (37 weeks); another couple younger than us who seemed harmless enough (24 weeks - she looked terrified at the size of some of the bumps), and arriving late one further couple (diamond-geezer bloke, cats-bum mouthed woman, both probably racist (30-ish weeks I think)), and us, who were probably the oldest ones there but looked by far the most together and relaxed and sophisticated. Ahem. Didn't spot what I would call potential lifelong friends amongst this lot, but you never know. (Except sometimes you do).

I think we were all First Time Parents, so when the midwife asked us stupid things like "Have any of you had any Braxton Hicks contractions yet?" every single one of us looked blank - how are we meant to know? (Braxton Hicks - practice contractions felt as your uterus 'tightening', apparently). There was a lot of information about what the onset of labour might be like e.g. signs to look out for (main one - human being coming out of your body), how to get into the labour ward if you turn up at 3 in the morning because it'll be locked - actually I have forgotten how, I hope the husband was listening; I was class swot because I'd brought along my notes (the ones I mentioned before that they like looking at) and no-one else had, the midwife used them to show us the phone numbers for everyone we're supposed to ring for different things (again, wasn't really paying attention). Something about Kick Charts if we don't feel spawns moving around for any length of time (I have mental images of karate dojos with pictures on the walls showing them how to kick, but it's not these they mean). Descriptions of what is going on during labour with accompanying skeleton pelvis, baby doll being wedged rather fiercely into said pelvis, large knitted uterus with a small sleeve for the cervix and balloon in it representing amniotic sac, and cutaway anatomy pictures of uteruses (uteri?) like you get in biology textbooks. I thoroughly enjoyed most of it, I was very good at Biology at school, although the husband didn't help when he kept murmuring "Ooooh! That's really gonna hurt!" to me.

After a short break - one of the single mums (37 weeks) said to the midwife "Is it alright if we go outside for a cigarette?" (at which point Cats-bum-Mouth next to us pursed her mouth up even more and my husband snorted with laughter and had to go and get a drink of lemon) then everyone except us, them and the midwife disappeared out for a fag - we got to play with gas & air masks and pipes, and to see an epidural needle, and all different sorts of pain relief were discussed. The midwife told us that they know when mothers are ready to push out the sprog as it's normally the point at which they demand the strongest drugs known to man, refuse to do any more and want to go home.

It was all very interesting, in a nice theoretical learning sort of way. I can't see me actually doing any of it though, in the same way that it's fascinating to learn about how the heart works but you would never actually want to see one open in front of you there on the operating table. I'm perfectly happy with the colour drawings and the models thank you very much, I don't need to do the practical.

Next week we are doing Normal Labour, then the one after that we're doing Abnormal Labour, and I don't know what is planned for the last one. Some of the girls who were there will probably already have their babies by then.

There were no biscuits.

2007-01-05T11:59:00.000-08:00

Ok, yes I know it's been a while - so much to tell you! Well, not that much really, just thought I'd start off positive.

I'm now 30 weeks into this fun-a-palooza, which means I'm 6.8 months apparently. All of a sudden I seem to have got massive - almost every person I meet asks me when I'm due, so I can no longer pretend that it's not obvious. It's all sticking out at the front, so I now look like one of those African fertility dolls. I can't bend over very easily so I have to do squats every time I want to pick something up from the floor, although once I'm down I can't see what I want to pick up any more because my belly gets in the way. I haven't seen my pubes for a few weeks now either.

Of course we have had Christmas since I last blogged, so this could very easily be down to the 2 full Christmas dinners (one Christmas Eve, one Christmas Day), 1 large buffet (Boxing Day - thank you Other-Sister-in-Law) and 1 New Year's Eve smorgasbord (cheers Mr. & Mrs. B) that I have consumed over the last fortnight, not to mention the mince pies, Christmas cake, stollen, chocolates, crisps, leftover turkey sandwiches and pickles (mmm - almost better than Christmas dinner itself), cheese and biscuits and nuts that also got stuffed into my face every day while I was off work. Well, what else are you supposed to do at Christmas? I was on my own from Boxing Day as the husband had to go back to work, so I did what I most enjoy about Christmas, and that's Lying On The Sofa Watching Telly And Scoffing. To quieten the healthy voice of reason that was screaming at me when I had leftover Christmas pudding and cream for lunch one day, I reminded myself that this is going to be the very last Christmas where I can get to do this stuff. God knows what it'll be like from now on, but it'll never be the same again. I thought it only fitting to give it a proper send-off.

...Hmm perhaps just an ounce or two of this rotundness may well be food rather than spawn then...

So anyway, do you want to know about the 4d scan or not? How about we start off with them cancelling my appointment the day before we were due to go? As I've said, we were meant to go on Christmas Eve Eve (a Saturday), thus we'd invited the Mums over for dinner on Christmas Eve with the intention of giving them a nice Christmas screening of their new grandchild. Both the husband and I were off on the Friday, so we had gone food shopping for the meal (full 3 course turkey dinner with a fine selection of beers, wines and spirits (and Schloer for me), coffee and mince pies and Christmas cake and mints to be served in the lounge afterwards), done a bit of last-minute present-buying in town and came home full of Christmas spirit and feeling very pleased with ourselves. Really we ought to have known better. We're the sort of couple that if for a microsecond we fail to be sceptical or cynical about any tiny little thing, it will turn around and bite us on the arse immediately. We'd slipped here and were really looking forward to meeting the spawn face-to-face and finding out what flavour it was.

One answerphone message later and this was all out of the window. A rather blase voice told us that their scanner had broken, so we couldn't come along tomorrow as booked, but we could call them back and re-book it if we liked, for after Christmas. I called them back, and got their answerphone. I called 3 more times over the next 3 hours and got the answerphone each time. We assumed that they had cleared off home early for Christmas, so the messages I was leaving got stroppier and more furious each time. Finally someone did call us back - she was the owner I think, and she clearly hadn't listened to her messages because I don't think she'd have dared ring me back ever again. We had to rebook for the Friday after Christmas, which meant we were having the Mums over the next day for nothing more than dinner now (which me being antisocial and lazy I probably wouldn't have bothered with if we hadn't had the floorshow planned) but she did offer us a DVD of the scan for free (saving us quite a bit of money) which we grumpily agreed to.

Fast-forward to the scan - what an odd little place it was, looking like a little shop in a row of little shops in the middle of nowhere. We got there much earlier than our appointment, there being about 60% less traffic than we'd thought there was going to be. The lady (not the one I'd spoken to) made us a nice cup of tea while we waited for the sonographer to drag his arse into work, and then in we went. I'm au fait with this blue jelly and belly out business now, but he squirted tons of it on me, it was actually piled up there was so much. Anyway, the scan starts off as a normal ultrasound and then they select bits to switch in and out of 4d for, he explained that for a good scan they needed the spawn in a certain position with some fluid in front of its face so the camera can focus more easily. Spawn got top marks for hearing and obeying this straight away.

The sonographer asked us if we wanted to know the sex of the baby, I said "Oh yes please" and he started laughing. "Erm - it's fairly obvious" he replied. The husband and I were gawping at the big screen with not a clue - so not that obvious then. Mr. Sonographer then started pointing out what I'd thought was a strange shaped head as an enormous pair of bollocks and a willy. "Ohhh!" we both rather gormlessly said, and I was ridiculously pleased (this is the point where I can pretend that I KNEW it was a boy all along). The rest of the scan (it took about half an hour) was spent looking at his face (4d makes it look a bit lumpy, but the lad is quite clearly his father's son - phew, got away with that one then) and occasionally filming his bits so we can all have a good laugh on his 18th birthday. I have to say I watched it all rather breathlessly, it was very very strange to have a face to picture when I think about this thing squirming around inside me now.

We've shown the DVD to the Mums, who were thrilled - the Husband's mum just kept saying how much he looked like the Husband and what a pretty baby he was, my mum couldn't believe that she'd lived to see such futuristic technology in her lifetime and nearly had kittens when Spawn did massive yawns to show how bored he was of the whole thing, and to Mr. & Mrs. B, who were exceedingly complimentary and didn't once let on how bored of all the baby talk they were, I take my hat off to them.

2006-12-08T11:51:00.000-08:00

OK where were we? Oh yes, 2nd midwife appointment. I went along as duly instructed, although I couldn't remember if I was meant to have wee'd in the tiny little pot I was given ages ago. So I didn't - I mean, who wants to carry their own piss around with them? You do? O...K.... thank you sir.

The husband came with me, dropped me off outside the doctor's surgery and went off to find a parking space. But he never returned. I sat in the window of the waiting room and watched every single person going up and down the road, not one of whom appeared to be the husband. Eventually (only about 15 minutes after my appointment time - they're really more just for the look of it, appointments, aren't they?) the midwife asked me to go in. She introduced herself to me, obviously not remembering that she'd been in my house the last time. When I pointed this out to her, she suddenly remembered who I was and what job I do and got all insistent about how they've improved birth notifications to the local health authority. I was happy to reassure her that I didn't give a monkey's. (I didn't actually say that).

She then asked me to go and wee on another flimsy plastic stick, and reprimanded me for not bringing some piss in the pot. Apparently I have to have some every time I "go to clinic" even though all she did was check the stick against the paint chart again. Why can't I just wee on a stick each time? The old stalwart, my blood pressure, was taken again, and she asked me if I'd felt "my baby" move at all. That was an odd phrase to hear. I don't really think of it as "my" anything, more "evil thrashing demon". Anyway - I had, and she wrote FMF down in my big book of what's wrong (or not) with me that they give you and you have to carry around for nine months (I forgot to mention that earlier - not only are you lugging around another person, you have this wodge of charts and notes and personal information that they always like looking at when you visit anyone medical, and which I always almost forget to bring). Then up on the bed whatsit, gut out and it's blue-jelly-listening-time, POW-POW-POW-POW still going strong.

Then she did something which, quite frankly, astounded me. She got a tape measure, like you'd use for measuring your waist, and stretched it from my bikini line up to a point which obviously meant something to her but which I failed to catch, and said "Oh yes, 25cm." Eh? What was the point of that?

Someone reckoned it's meant to be a way of telling how far gone I am, but she already knew that, so what did that bit of old housewives' nonsense tell her? In the 21st century?

That was pretty much it. I have to go back the week after New Year, and my antenatal classes start in January. She asked if the husband would be coming along to any, I said he probably would depending on his shifts, and she replied "Oh good, I'll be able to do a Caesarean on him." Yerrsss. I'm noticing that everything is, just ever so slightly, getting more and more surreal, and I'm expected to behave as if it isn't...

When I came out, still no sign of the husband. I eventually found him parked down the road listening to the radio in the car. His explanation was that it took a while to find a parking space, it was probably very boring, and he didn't want to come in. Fair enough.

We bought a Baby Record Book from Mothercare the other day, it is the same picture as this one

except it says Baby Record Book. We are going to write rude things in for the sicky bits that say things like "This is how we felt when we saw you for the first time:"

I got measured for a maternity bra the other day, but I had to go back and change them because they didn't fit. Well done Mothercare. It's probably something fairly self-explanatory, but little hint for next time - the bra goes underneath the clothes, so you have to measure someone there, not over the top of a jumper. It's my fault really, I was expecting you to know what you're doing. Tsk. I have to admit, the reason I went was because a sister-in-law frightened me by saying her midwife told her that it was really important to have a proper maternity bra, or you'd end up with spaniels' ears later on, and her bosom is doing very nicely after four kids, so I went with it.

Last thing before I go tonight - the husband was laughing the other night. When I asked him what at, he said "You - stomping around with your pot belly sticking out."

2006-11-30T04:41:00.000-08:00

Not blogged much because not much has happened to be honest. It's still kicking around, particularly seemed to enjoy Bohemian Rhapsody the other night. I must remember to get hold of some Linguaphone CDs for it (well, why not - they'll either work, in which case it'll be able to learn languages really easily, or they won't, in which case nothing lost. A little voice at the back of my head is suggesting that I have completely lost it, but I didn't get where I am today by listening to the voice of reason).

I have managed to book one of these though http://www.a4dbaby.com/index.htm. We're going on Christmas Eve Eve, so we'll get to see it and find out what flavour it is right before Christmas, which is great. A bit extravagant maybe, but my hospital has a policy of not telling you the sex of the spawn and it costs nearly a ton to have a private sexing scan done anyway, so we thought we might as well get some freaky pictures at the same time.

The husband and I were debating whether or not to tell anyone else what sort it is once we know, but I have had threats of physical violence from Mrs. Baker and the people I work with if I don't tell them. Also, as he pointed out, people can buy us more stuff if they know what it is. I like his mercenary leanings there.

I'm booked in for my 2nd midwife check next week. God, booking that was a job in itself. I rang my local surgery to make the appointment, and got some snotty receptionist (wow, a snotty doctor's receptionist? Who'd have expected that?) who told me that I had to go on a Tuesday afternoon. When I said OK, I'd have to call back because I needed to check with work (it'd mean closing the office I'm working in for the afternoon) she got even more snotty. So I asked if I could go any other day. No, I couldn't. Could I go to a different clinic on a different day? No.
You gotta love their sense of customer service.

Sorry this isn't very upbeat, but I've been feeling a bit down. I haven't had a holiday this year, apart from a week spent putting up a new garden shed, and it sometimes feels like I'm the only person in this place doing any actual work. Also have had some really disagreeable customers in, whom I seem to have taken an instant dislike to, where otherwise I might have just ignored them. I've kind of bought into this spoiling-pregnant-wimmin lark and I'm feeling a bit cheated.

2006-11-15T01:45:00.000-08:00

It's an active little bugger, I have to say. It let me know when Mozart had finished (last night's chosen CD being played through my belly to it) by kicking me lustily in the bladder. It also responded to the husband blowing raspberries on me, by kicking (or punching) hard enough that I could feel it with my hand, verrrry freaky!

It's complete open season on my size now, I can hear people discussing me when I'm not actually in the room and I'm being treated like a Good Luck Buddha with the amount of belly-rubbing that seems to be happening. I am honestly not that big but you'd think I was an abnormal elephantine circus show exhibit. Although I have also been told that I am "blooming" (yet another thing people think they have to tell pregnant wimmin - does this mean I was a haggard-looking shell before? I haven't noticed anything different), and that my boobs are fab. Heheh.

2006-11-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

Evidence that I am Losing It:

1. I am forgetting Everything
(a) I was meant to take a sound card back to PC World the other night. We got in the car, knowing that we had only enough petrol to get to Sainsburys so we could fill up and go there afterwards because it's next door. Half-way there the husband asked if I had my card with me. I thought he meant my Nectar card so I said "Yes," in a stroppy tone because I've always got it with me and he never has his so why would he be questioning me. He replied "the sound card?" and I went quiet. We had to go all the way there, fill up with petrol, and then come home again, and it's still sitting on my dining room table. I couldn't think of any way to blame the husband for that one either.
(b) The same night, I was going round to get my PC back off poor Mr B, and I had some lettuce for Vic the Bunny. I left it out purposely to remind me to take it. I left it on the side. Poor Vic the Bunny went lettuce-less and the lettuce had to go in the bin.
(c) Countless things at work... but I'm not admitting to those, even on here :)

2. I was trying to describe to the husband what my cat's fur looked like when I stroked her the wrong way, and the phrase "guinea piggy" came out. I then spent 10 minutes in hysterics at just how funny it sounded while the husband looked on in alarmed bafflement.

3. I can't get organised at all. I know exactly what I'm supposed to be doing and when, and yet somehow it whizzes past me in a blur and I've no idea how I didn't manage to do it. Although to be fair, this may have been happening before I was knocked up. But now I have an excuse.

4. I am in a better mood with everyone. This, as anyone who knows me knows, is definitely not like me. I'm a lot more tolerant of all the stupid fuckwits and their moronic ramblings that I come across every day. It has absolutely got to be hormones, because normally I would rip people's arms off and beat their heads in with them just to shut them up. As for the belly-rubbers, a swift punch in the face used to do the trick. Now I'm stood there like a broken-in horse being petted. But I'm like one of those horses where, yes, it might have been broken in, but it's looking askance at you and... just thinking... about how nice it would have been to sink its teeth into your arm.

5. I seem to be crying at soppy things more than usual - It's Me or the Dog set me off a couple of weeks ago, and the Royle Family the other night. I admit to blubbing at some things, but I'm not your standard weeping woman (I got glared at in the cinema for laughing at the end of Titanic) so this is also definitely spawn-related. The husband is endlessly amused by it.

2006-11-07T03:10:00.000-08:00

Am having to face some serious clothing issues. I am down to 1 work suit that still fits, no jeans, hardly any blouses do up over my ever-increasing boobs, and skirts that I think "Oh yeah this'll be fine if I hoik it right up under my boobs" (grandad underpants style) until I get half way through the day and the waistband is cutting off my oxygen supply. The annoying thing is, everything still fits until I try and do the waist up. I told the husband that I am going to start a trend where it is socially acceptable for pregnant wimmin to go around with their flies completely undone. He told me I wasn't.

I did buy some stuff to wear 'when I got bigger' but it only amounted to 1 pair of trousers, a couple of stretchy wrap dresses and a couple of jumpers. I thought that would be all I'd need, perhaps for a month at the end of it all. Ha! How naive. I am going to need more. My sister in law donated a stretchy denim skirt which was a joy to put on - I could actually breathe whilst wearing it. I shall now be wearing it for the next 4 months, so it'll be able to stand up and walk out on its own by the end.

Apparently my actual physical body ends about 3 inches inside of where it may look like it ends, as anyone and everyone are happily patting my stomach, rubbing my belly and talking to my waist. Whether I want them to or not. This is an odd thing - people seem to think that it's not me they're molesting, it's "The Baby" they're chatting away to. O...K... Also, it's fine for everyone to comment on how fat I am, but it's wrong for me to say "wow, your arse has got really massive!" in return. Alright, alright, I won't do that again then.

I have been making the Husband talk to the evil alien spawn through my belly as one book said they can hear male voices better - it did some squirming so we'll assume they aren't lying. On the subject of squirming: I am not into it. It's really bloody uncomfortable at times, which is something no-one tells you. The sister-in-law of the skirt gleefully told me "Wait til it gets bigger - it really hurts when they kick you in the lungs or the bladder or the ribs." She also asked me if - wait for it - my belly button had popped out yet. Holy mother of God, this is one nightmare after another.

We were talking about Names the other day, the Husband and I. He is deliberately confusing things by saying that he likes names that a month ago he adamantly refused to consider, and then denying that he ever said he would never name a child of his that, and telling me it must be my hormones. I am going to start recording conversations with him.

On a more worrying note, my Sky+ box is dying. What on earth will we do if it doesn't work over Christmas? I am going to reset it today, and if that doesn't work, do some open-heart surgery on it and put a new hard disc in, wish me luck.
http://www.xtendedplay.co.uk/sky-hard-disk-upgrade-kit-250gb-ce-drive-p-47.html?osCsid=8ccc3ce1acb0d7d9f666e4a45bacf290

2006-11-01T03:44:00.000-08:00

So yeah, 20 week scan then. I must say, it's starting to feel like I have been up the duff for ages but 20 weeks is only just over half way. How rubbish.

We went down there, and I was bursting for the loo again, but this time for a poo. I was really worried that they would be able to see it all on the screen, and I'm not sure they didn't and just didn't want to say anything. I couldn't go beforehand because I was meant to have a reasonably full bladder, not as much as last time but a couple of drinks' worth, and I knew if I went to the loo I'd wee as well. Ahem. Anyway...

More cold blue jelly, and 2 sonographers this time, 1 doing the doing and 1 writing stuff down. She said "Still just one in there," which made me wonder if they often have it where it's multiplied since the last time they looked? It was much bigger - not enough room for headspins any more. I was right about the moving around, because I could actually see it happening now and it felt exactly the same. It was trying to punch and kick me this time. Thank you, you evil little scrote.

There was a lot of measuring going on, I thought she was measuring its head for ages but apparently she'd switched half way through to measuring its body. Oops - from my angle it all looked the same. 2 arms and 2 legs, the right length, with requisite fingers and toes so all good there. The husband did say that a 3rd arm would have been quite useful, but, alas, it was not to be. Then she did a very freaky thing and had a look inside its heart. We could see the chambers and the valves pulsating away.

She then wanted to measure its spine but it was lying on its back being awkward, so I was told to go for a wee (?) While I was there I parked my breakfast as well, then had a jump up and down and did a few hulas. I went back in, they had another look and the sonographer said "Oh, what a co-operative child" as it'd turned right over and she could take all the measurements of its spine that she needed. Well, you'd move too if that was going past your head wouldn't you?

Right at the end I was shown some charts and told that it was right in the middle of Normal for everything, which they like, and that it has a rather fat belly. Hmmm. It is now about 6 inches long from head to bum - "Kitten size" as the husband said. I got another pic, not as clear this time as it wouldn't stay still enough. Oh and I have to go back for another scan at 34 weeks as apparently my placenta is a bit low, but it'll probably move by then. Move? They move? Urgh.

Bit sad today as I just registered the births and deaths of twins (that's what I do for a job), who only made it to 22 weeks, and only lived for 10 minutes. Makes me feel a bit uneasy, being at 20 weeks. The mum and dad were very calm and brave about it all. Also, I think I just registered the husband's auntie's death (we don't have a lot to do with that side of the fambly). It is a Very Weird Day today.

2006-10-24T08:21:00.000-07:00

I think it's moving.

Either that, or my digestive system has started behaving very strangely and moving large lumps of undigested dinners and intestinal gases around at odd times, and giving them the odd shake for good measure. Seeing as I haven't needed to fart any extra, I'm putting it down to the evil alien spawn. As an experiment I played some Tchaikovsky to my stomach on Friday night and either the spawn or my chip butties seemed to enjoy it immensely. Or hated it - I suppose it could have been thrashing around in agonies screaming "Aaaargh! Turn it off!" but hey. It's my stomach, dude. You're not the boss of me. (Yet?)

I'm finding now that if I eat Anything At All, or need a wee, I have a rather round belly. And apparently everyone is now allowed to comment on whether I have got fat or not, and if I ever dare to breathe out or relax my stomach muscles for a microsecond there's another "Ooh, are you starting to show now? There's a bit of a bump there, oh yes," remark. I had no idea people were looking at my gut that much, but from the interest shown you'd think there was a bloody sweepstake going (if I find out there is, there's going to be trouble if I don't get a cut).

2006-10-19T08:02:00.000-07:00

When I laughed at the Husband for hitting his head on the cooker hood again (every time! You'd honestly think some primitive instinct would kick in and make him duck), in a menacing tone of voice he told me, "In four and a half months, when you're in pain, I will be laughing at you." I said that they would throw him out of the room. He replied "I can still look through the window, and I will point and laugh even more loudly, so you can hear me."

Boobs are definitely a bit bigger. A lot of my bras are really just decoration now, there is no actual containing going on. However much I may have wanted larger norks in the past, I've changed my mind - they totally get in the way, my t-shirts are riding up, and I can't run with them. Oh and they are too heavy. The Husband keeps 'measuring' for me and, unsurprisingly, seems very happy. The nips look a lot better now though, the whole Zinger Tower burger effect seems to have calmed down and they're going back to the colour they should have been. Sorry, but people need to know these things.

Belly: not really any bigger. If I need a wee (which I have to admit, I seem to rather more than normal) then in the right light, you might possibly think there was a bumpiness going on, and it feels about as hard as when you've had a Christmas dinner. Other times (post wee) I would say I just look like I've only just finished my tea. But starting to feel a bit bloaty. Could be spawn. Could be Fig Rolls.

2006-10-19T07:15:00.000-07:00

I have sustained an injury.

How? you may ask. Well, my PC died. So I took it round to poor Mr. Baker to fix it.. so far no drama. Until he asked me where the key for the PC case was... and thus began the trials. PCs and I don't get on, which is why I did both them and myself a favour and stopped working in IT. I wasn't even aware that my PC needed a key, let alone remember where it was. So I called the Husband at work, to see if he recalled seeing one anywhere. No, he didn't. No, he couldn't remember if there was one in the box it came in. No, he couldn't remember if we'd kept the box. No, he wasn't sure, had we kept the box, if it was in the loft. I got the message - I was on my own.

After a fruitless search in desk drawers and tins, I came to the conclusion that if a key existed, it was in the box. Which was possibly in the loft. Now I don't go into the loft, ever. It is a cold place full of spiders and pipes and dust. The most I have done is stick my head above the top rung of the ladder just so I knew what it looked like. But, hey, I'm a modern chickie, I can do stuff like go into lofts if the occasion calls for it. First things first - step ladder.

By now I'm getting fed up. Off I go to the garage, to retrieve the step ladder. It's cold and dark and raining outside, and in the garage (also full of spiders) we have one ladder-shaped space where the ladder was but is no longer. Now I'm really pissed off. OK, the shed at the bottom of the garden. I stomp off to put back the key for the garage and get the key for the shed. Then I stomp off down the garden, trip over the step in the darkness and end up face down on the path, in the rain, in pain. And to top it all off, no ladder in shed. So my ever-decreasing circle now includes 1. a dead PC. 2. a missing ladder. 3. a bloody, swollen knee, bruised hip, scratched hands and wet clothing.

Back in the house I did manage to open the loft hatch by balancing on the very top post of the bannister above the staircase, but then the pain of my knee and Common Sense bellowing through a megaphone managed to get through and I gave up. In a flash of enlightenment I knew that this whole thing could only be the Husband's fault. I sent him a text (when he failed to answer his phone about a hundred times) telling him that I was severely injured and it was all his fault. It was only when he rang me about half an hour later sounding rather panicked, that I realised he might have been thinking "severely injured pregnant wife" meant rather more than my grazed knee.

I am banned from the loft now.

2006-10-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

Right then, where were we?

Still not getting fat, which is good. All clothes are fitting as normal.(Apart from bras, but more on that another time). The husband keeps telling me I have a pod, but I put this down to chip butties for tea on Friday, and a chinese takeaway last night. He in fact spent the other night going "I did that. I put that in there. Ha ha ha" in a self-satisfied, rather preening tone of voice. We'll see who's laughing in 5 months' time. Oh shit - it won't be me though, will it?

Oh yes - I got through the midwife visit OK, I had bought posh biscuits from Marks and made her a cuppa, which she didn't see as attempts at bribery despite the warnings from my friend at work. She turned up with a padawan midwife in tow and they spent the time asking about my medical history and writing stuff down in the book they gave me. I was told not to take the antihistamines I'm usually on, I lied barefacedly and promised I hadn't been and wouldn't do. Bollocks to that. There was also lots of "don't eat this.. don't eat that.." but then she told me that I was alright to drink alcohol (despite me telling her that I'm really not a big drinker and I can take it or leave it) as long as it was in moderation, ie, don't get shitfaced. So make your bloody mind up woman. I'm not to take the tablets I've been on for years which I'm very uncomfortable without, and for which there is no conclusive proof that they're harmful in pregnancy but there's also none to say they're OK, but alcohol (which there is a lot of proof about - syndromes and nasty-sounding stuff) is fine. W-w-w-what-everrr. I really get the impression that people don't actually fully understand what the hell is happening to a pregnant woman, and they are making it up as they go along. She gave me a prime example of this herself: in the 70s (ie, when I was being born), mothers were expressly told to eat liver (for the protein content) and drink Guinness (for the iron). Now they've decided that liver and Guinness are Bad. Give it another 30 years and they'll have changed their minds again.

Then she asked me where I wanted to give birth... Now up til this point it had sort of occurred to me that giving actual birth might be a vague possibility, way off in the future, but not the kind of thing I really need to worry about right now. The two of them were chatting about it like it was a given. Hmmm.

One good thing though - I didn't get any shit off them for wanting to bottlefeed. They didn't give a stuff. We're going to get on just fine.

The pram/pushchair thingmy turned up as well (Thank you ebay woman, I take back all the pikey comments from earlier). We took it round to the Mother in Law's, and spent an afternoon learning how to put the bloody thing together. Well, I say we, I mean the Husband was happily clipping things on and turning cogs and what have you, I drank tea and watched Dick van Dyke in Diagnosis Murder with the Mother in Law's friend. Then I was told I "had to learn" so I sulkily watched as he demonstrated (the Husband, not DvD) how to attach a seating jobby to the frame. "It's your go now." I clambered around, pushed things on and stood back smugly.
The seating jobby, slowly at first, then with gathering momentum, pivoted backwards, catapulted over and ended with a solid-sounding crunch 180 degrees from where it should have been according to the picture in the instructions. I found the whole thing wonderfully hilarious, but when I finally picked myself off the floor and looked up, there was the Husband, Mother in Law, Stepfather in Law and Mother in Law's friend all looking aghast at me. The husband murmured "Must remember to buy a crash helmet for it."

Oh by the way, we've heard it, and it's still in there. I had to have an antenatal check, which just means you wee on a flimsy little plastic strip (not as easy as I thought it was going to be - as soon as the wee hit it, it sprayed off and back on my hand. Lovely) and they hold it up against a tiny paint chart to see if you're Diabetic or have Proteins or if your wee is Lemon Chiffon or Spring Breeze, then they take your blood pressure (which I think is something they do just for the look of it) and then they put a microphone thing on my stomach (more cold blue jelly again here). She couldn't find it at first, but then after a couple of pops and screeches like on the proximity detector the Marines have in Aliens, there was a very determined POW-POW-POW-POW. Then the sound of my lunch going past.

2006-10-03T03:32:00.000-07:00

Ok, I've sussed out how this works now. I show any interest in baby stuff - I throw up.

Exhibit A: One of the women at work is knitting me some baby stuff. I got to choose the patterns and buy the wool, and it was all pretty good fun, I can honestly admit that I was feeling quite happy about it all.
Exhibit B: Someone has offered us a brand new cot and all the gubbins that go in it for a song
Exhibit C: We can have my sister-in-law's car seat which was a spare for her grandchild
Exhibit D: The Mother in Law bought us a very sweet baby bouncer thingmy

Consequence: I was re-enacting that scene from The Exorcist at 10.30pm Sunday night. For God's sake, I was sick out of my nose.

I have learnt my lesson.

2006-09-26T12:13:00.000-07:00

I got a call from the Community Midwife on Sunday evening (ooh, tricksy - making sure I was in). I thought it was the Husband calling from work so I answered it in the deranged voice I save for him. For a second she didn't say anything, then I got a frosty "May I speak to [me] please." Erk. The rest of it went like this:

Community Midwife Nazi: "I understand that you're pregnant, congratulations."
Me: "Um. Thank you."
CMN: "You're 15 weeks, yes?"
Me: "Um..."
CMN: "I will be doing your assessment, and I normally do this in your home."
Me: "My...?"
CMN: "I am available next Wednesday, or the following Wednesday, Thursday or Friday."
Me: "?"
CMN: "You are legally entitled to time off work for this."
Me: "Oh, good!"
CMN: "I will be there between 12 and 4."

So it must be like when you get a fridge delivered and they can't tell you an exact time because then you wouldn't be sat there like a moron for half a day, and where's the fun in that. At least I only have to work til 11.30.
My friend at work pointed out that the Nazi was probably coming over to see if I would be allowed to keep the evil alien spawn once I'd had it. So now I have to tidy the house and get some nice biscuits in. Although depending on what it's like when it gets here, I'm not that fussed and she can have it anyway. Another friend at work explained that this Nazi was probably going to be the one I would see for the rest of the way through this whole business. Shit, I hope I get on with her then. Although knowing my luck, it'll be mutual hate at first sight.

So, if it's 15 weeks, apparently it's now the size of a grapefruit, which is odd because I still don't look any different and am happily wearing normal clothes. You'd have thought you'd notice having something that size inside you. Last night the husband demanded to know when I was going to get fat, and complained that all the Fatty Fat-Fat, Trunky-Wanna-Bun jokes he had lined up were going to waste.

We have bought stuff for it. Maybe a bit presumptuous, but they were on sale, what can I say. When I say "we", I mean the Husband decided we were buying stuff. The first thing is a buggy/pram or whatever they're called these days. He went into car-buying mode, telling me about the differences between all the models, and comparing the pluses and minuses of them. I couldn't honestly tell them apart - essentially they're boxes to put babies in on a set of wheels, but he was very pleased with the one we've ordered. I am not very pleased with the pikey cow we've bought it from off ebay, ffs who doesn't accept Paypal on there apart from benefit-claiming tax-dodging shysters? If it doesn't turn up, I'm calling the Inland Revenue and suggesting they investigate her finances.
The other thing is a Bottle Steriliser (ooh, scientific-sounding). Which we need, so I'm told. I'm happy to be led here, because I am not doing the tit thing. End. Of. Discussion.

2006-09-19T12:43:00.000-07:00

So I've had my last baby-free birthday. Hmmm.

All the comments in my card from work sounded like more threats ("Enjoy your last thin birthday...") I did great though, no-one bought me presents that were really presents for a baby, although Husband's Mum did give me our first baby things as well as a proper present (money towards the digital camera I'm saving up for) - some bibs with Roo from Winnie the Pooh on, and some sleepsuits. I find it really bizarre to picture something in these items, and furthermore picture me with something with these items. I put them in a box so I didn't have to look at them.

I have been reading about all the different exercises I am supposed to be doing. They basically involve squeezing in any conceivable (ha ha no pun intended) part of me that might possibly be relaxed, and not releasing it until a human being has come out of my body.

Good news though - I seem to have withstood the sickness, I knew I was stronger than the evil alien spawn. Birthday cake has helped enormously here.

Oh, the visit to Dr. Onymous went thusly:
Dr: "Did you bring a urine sample?"
Me: "No. Was I meant to?"
Dr: "Um. Didn't I ask you to?"
Me: "No."
Dr: "Oh well. Have a pot - give it to the midwife when you go and see her."
Me: "When's that?"
Dr: "Um. Didn't we arrange that?"

etc etc. Blind leading the blind.

2006-09-10T08:55:00.000-07:00

This thing hates me. I have been throwing up, or trying to throw up, or trying not to throw up, the whole week. Chilli con carne in reverse is not right. My Mum said to me "But why are you being sick? I was never sick." So in her mind I'm already doing something wrong, colour me hugely fucking surprised there.

Everyone at work knows now, they are all very excited (or very good at pretending), and the stories/advice/threats ("You'd better have a girl") are flowing freely. Example:
Them: "You shouldn't be carrying that box of heavy stuff about you know."
Me: "I'm alright."
Them: "No, but you really shouldn't."
Me: "Well I don't see anyone else offering to carry it for me."
Them: [walking hurriedly in opposite direction]
Me: [continuing to carry box of heavy stuff]
fin

Another woman-at-work's-daughter is about a month further along than I am, so her mum is passing on to me from her all the cool weird baby stuff she's found, like baby hammocks http://www.babyhammocks.com/ and baby buckets http://www.babybathshop.co.uk/acatalog/Tummy_Tubs.html I wonder when I will actually want to buy any baby stuff? At the moment it all seems rather complicated and unnecessary and I would rather look at digital SLRs.

I have to go and see Dr. Onymous tomorrow. I can't remember why, or if he said I had to see him or go and see the midwives at the clinic (the location of which I have no idea). So neither of us are going to know what I'm doing there tomorrow. Seriously, it's the blind leading the blind...

2006-09-04T11:12:00.000-07:00

So today was scan day...

I woke up at about half six worried what I would say when there turned out to be nothing in there, or that it'd be all dried up and hanging there like a manky grape. It said on my letter from the ultrasound department that I needed to drink a pint of water an hour before my appointment, so like a good girl that's what I did. I then nearly made us late because I couldn't find my cardigan (still can't, and haven't seen it for months come to think of it), so we were racing to the reception, I was pissed off about my cardigan, the husband and I were sniping at each other about anything and I needed a huge pee.

Didn't have to wait very long, then we went into the room and the sonographer did her stuff with the gel and the thing that looks like an epilator. The first thing she said was "Just one, no company in there," which I was a bit disappointed at because twins are interesting, if somewhat freaky, and which I was fairly surprised at, being half convinced there was nothing in there. Then she swung the monitor around so we could have a look and there it was. Swimming around on its head, waving arms and legs with gay abandon. Definitely in there; definitely not a grape.

The sonographer then said "My, your bladder is very full, isn't it," which made me want to pee even more. She tried to measure the evil alien spawn, at which point it sulkily turned its back on her and refused to co-operate, so she poked and pushed at it with the epilator (bladder control threatening to shut down) until it turned again. Apparently it was healthy and normal and it didn't matter that it was upside down and doing headspins. She also said that we had a good clear view of it because I'm "fairly slim", lovely lady. She sold us on 1 photo and made the husband go outside and put £3 in the machine, then gave us 1 in a little card wallet and one not (do you normally get 2 then, or did she just like us? Or, as the husband said, because he was the best looking husband there?). Then she made us leave. I reckon it took around 10 minutes for that bit, and 5 minutes for the wee I had to do immediately after (it wouldn't stop... I thought I'd finished, and then did another whole normal-sized wee again).

Then it was round the corner to see a midwife, who came hobbling towards us using a walking stick - not a reassuring sight? I got weighed (thank god I'd had the wee first, there was at least an extra kilo in there) and height-measured (at which point the husband coughed "borderline dwarf!" oh he thinks he is so funny) , and then she asked me if I had read the notes on tests for Down's Sydrome and what had I decided on. I hadn't realised I was going to be quizzed on those... but after a second I managed to act like I knew what she was on about and found the right page in the booklet straight away so I could tell her that yes thank you, I would have the initial test that is offered to everyone, and thank you for taking that snotty look off your face while you're about it. I was also given a big wodge of Maternity Notes that I now have to carry any where they are going to stick things in me or prod/poke me from now on. Oh and more baby stuff to read. Am going to need a bigger folder to put it all in and it's just going to make me feel sick again.

The mums are thrilled, Husband's Mum took the scan photo to mean the same as the baby-stuff-buying starter's pistol, and My Mum couldn't get over being able to see her first grandchild so soon and kept telling me how much things have changed since 1973.

By the way, my god, poor old Steve Irwin... what an absolutely unbelievable, Omen-style way to die. I'll raise a glass to you Steve, you were one of the few Australians I could stomach. I'm sure he's now telling St. Francis of Assisi not to be such a pussy and to just grab it by the neck. http://www.eonline.com/News/Items/0,1,19923,00.html

2006-09-01T01:30:00.000-07:00

Watched an episode of Scrubs the other night, where a pregnant woman's husband had to decide whether to save his wife or his unborn child.
Afterwards I had a conversation with my husband and made him agree that if anything like that happens to me, he has to save ME, the one he's known the longest. (As it turned out, they were both OK at the end... what a cop-out).

Am now 90% convinced that there's nothing in there at all... I haven't put on any weight (apart from the cherry bakewells I ate this week) and haven't had any other symptoms. Even the sickness is going off, and I happily had a glass of milk last night so the dairy thing seems to be over. The first scan is on Monday, I just know they're going to look at me and think I'm some sort of nutter who keeps having phantom pregnancies. I've stopped reading pregnancy books because they were making me feel sick, and they kept contradicting each other, and now I feel much better.

2006-08-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

Things that don't make me feel sick:

cherry tomatoes
Doritos and salsa
Water

Things that do make me feel sick:

Everything not above.

Even the smell of the rubber backing on our rug makes me go green. I end up going to bed by 10pm most nights in a huff as I can't eat anything I want nor even have a cup of tea, and sitting there feeling sick is not what I think of as fun times. (Don't tell anyone this but even my cats are making me feel queasy, and I love my cats).

I have been told by the husband that I am not allowed to eat Doritos and salsa for dinners any more. I pointed out that it was his evil alien spawn that was doing this to me, and that I'd starve on just cherry tomatoes but it fell on deaf ears.

PS I have to say it, there are some unpleasant things happening in the nipple area. I am not happy.

2006-08-16T06:51:00.000-07:00

After I'd recovered from the shock of finding out I was pregnant, something suddenly occurred to me which cheered me up. I told the husband that it was traditional for him to give me an eternity ring, as a token of his gratitude and appreciation for the safe arrival of his first-born. I showed him examples of such items so he would know what was necessary.

Initially he accused me of making it up, now he's pretending that the conversation never happened.

Happy 48th Birthday to Madonna, by the way.

2006-08-14T04:45:00.000-07:00

Someone at work the other day said "Have you put on weight? I bet you're pregnant!" Cheeky cow. If anything, I'm a bit slimmer than I was this time last year as I've been fitting into things I couldn't before. No I bloody haven't put on weight.

Nothing interesting is happening at all. Apart from me feeling sick as a dog sometimes - it sort of washes over, like travel sickness, but I refuse to yak. I have gone right off yoghurts and anything creamy-looking (including my body lotion and hair conditioner).

Lisa Baker (we'll come to her in a minute) very kindly bought me some breast pads yesterday, just to see my face when I saw what they were. After she'd finished pissing herself, we opened one up to find that they were slightly conical in shape, and would make ideal mini-plates for canapes, or wonky disposable coasters. After we finished mucking around with it I realised I now had an uneven number left. Let's hope one boob is less leaky than the other then. Jesus, I can't even begin to bear thinking about it.

So yes, Lisa absolutely refuses to get pregnant to keep me company. I mean, what kind of mate is that? I'm now the guinea pig for her to see just how terrible the whole process gets, before she decides not to have any. We're also going to see if we can hothouse the thing as I get bigger, you know, play it classical music and Linguaphone CDs and stuff. All in all it should be quite an interesting experiment, which we'd best do before it arrives as I don't think Social Services would think very highly of the whole business afterwards.

Seeing as how it is all rather dull at the moment, to perk things up here is an anecdote from the husband yesterday. At lunchtime, as I was eating a mini Babybel, he said calmly "That looks like whale sick." When I realised that I had heard him correctly, and asked for clarification, he told me about some girl finding a lump of whale sick washed up on a beach somewhere, and how she's sold it on for thousands of pounds to companies that make perfumes, as it's full of the stuff they put into the really expensive ones. He went on to claim that it used to be referred to as "floating gold."

Bugger me if he wasn't right http://uk.news.yahoo.com/12082006/140/girl-s-windfall-lump-whale-sick.html . I hate that.

2006-08-11T03:04:00.000-07:00

Weird pregnancy happenings that the books say I should have had and I have:
- feeling queasy/gone off a few foods
- little bit sore in the boob area
- that's it.

Weird pregnancy happenings that the books say I should have had and I haven't:
- feeling tired all the time
- weeing a lot
- metallic taste in my mouth (what?)
- hair going all nice and shiny
- huge mood swings
- constipation

Handy hint for anyone buying pregnancy tests: Get them in Wilkinsons or Savers. They're half the price of anywhere else and they're the proper ones, not made out of cheese or anything.

If I hadn't done the wee-stick thing I wouldn't have a clue. I'm not certain that anything's actually going on in there to be honest. I may just have a stomach bug.

Ahh, the wee-stick. What a strange moment that was. I'd done it, and then I forgot I'd done it and wandered back into the bathroom about 15 minutes later. When I saw it from the doorway I thought "shit that looks like..." and then I thought "Oh. Shit." And then shook it just in case it'd got stuck or something. No such luck.

I would say I felt 50% surprised that I could get pregnant - never having gotten pregnant in the past I was beginning to assume I couldn't, and was fairly ambivalent about it; 45% shocked/not best pleased (as I had again assumed it was going to take a lot more trying than that, and I had ages left before I seriously had to deal with ideas of babies) and 5% quite pleased - fair enough, we had been trying, and I do like to succeed at things.

My husband works shifts, so I had to wait for him to get home, then I lulled him into a false state of security by giving him his dinner and a cup of tea (that should have set the alarm bells ringing straight away), and then made him close his eyes and hold out his hand, then dropped the test into it. He thought he was going to get a bar of chocolate, so he hid his disappointment quite well, saying "Oooh. That's good!" and then "Isn't it?", not being sure of what he was supposed to say/do. Then "Urgh, you've weed on this."

My mum's reaction was even better, I told her I had a surprise for her and she said "Oh, have you won the lottery?!" So that took the wind out of my sails a bit, I felt really disappointed that I hadn't and that I was just up the duff.

When I went to visit my doctor, let's call him Dr. Onymous, I must have seemed not at all pleased, as the first thing he asked me was if I wanted to go through with it. I was rather taken aback, but then confirmed that yes, me and the husband were quite happy to press on with it all. My doctor is a bit vague most of the time. I had to see the nurse a couple of weeks later for blood tests and it was she who filled in my form so I can get free stuff off the NHS, and gave me my 'Emma's Diary' pack. Reading that diary is one of the reasons I'm doing this. The info in there is great, but she really got on my tits.

What's it FOR though?

2006-08-10T01:15:00.000-07:00

Looking at some of the other serious proper blogs around here, I feel a bit self-indulgent using this just to waffle on about me and boring things happening to me. Still, I take comfort in the fact that no-one will actually read this nonsense.

I think this is meant to be an in-depth look at a first pregnancy, from the point of view of someone who is hopefully still sane. The idea of a blog was suggested to me as a way of counteracting all the sugary, earth-mother assumptions in the few books and magazines I've glanced at, that
(1) all I have ever wanted to do as a woman is have a baby, and have spent the last few years of married life trying to convince my husband that a baby is the icing on the cake and/or breathlessly trying to conceive and collapsing in tears at the onset of every period;
(2) now I am pregnant, I am a precious princess, I must only eat organic whole foods which have been watered with mountain spring water, chanted over by monks/pagans/shamans and then coaxed from mother earth by vestal virgins, and I must seal myself in a hermetic vacuum in case I come into contact with smoke/alcohol/pollution/soil/animals/air
(3) all my aspirations/desires/goals have now been fulfilled and I can relax into 'motherhood' as I will never ever want to do anything else. Ever.

None of these things are me. I want to kill people who are these things. [Disclaimer: I do not actually harbour murderous intentions. I overstate things for dramatic effect. I hope this stands up in court].

I know a few things before we start. I know that nothing is more dull than some up-the-stick tart going on and on about her pregnancy, and then about her kids. In fact I'm already bored of it and it's happening to me. I cringe whenever someone mentions their kids. I also know, that for some (the majority?) of women, motherhood is what they have always wanted and they want everyone to know how happy they are. I'm not slating these people, I just don't want them to expect me to be the same. Hey, we're all different, live and let live, blah blah.

A few things about me are probably needed beforehand as well: I'm a bit negative. I do it for a laugh half the time. I'm rarely serious about what I say, it's up to you to decide what I'm being serious about and what I'm not. It bothers me not the slightest. I also don't care if you disagree with me and think I'm a horrible cow at any point.

OK. Are we clear? Great stuff.

My first blog post ever

2006-08-09T15:20:00.000-07:00

This has been forced upon me by well-meaning Ant and Lisa Baker... so now I've got it I have to use it.