Baby still not here and predictably I am going crazy checking the Internets every five minutes for flimsy "reassurance" (which is not very reassuring when sites about "stillbirth" come up).
My mother is going frantic and worrying, and people are ringing up every five minutes asking if I've had the baby yet. Meanwhile every time I have a hint of lower back pain I start kneeling on the floor and rocking back and forth just in case the long-awaited moment has finally arrived.
The good news is I did at least do something productive today. Yesterday I had my hopes up as I could feel the baby pushing down and I had very mild but persistent lower back pain (cue ridiculous trying out of all the labour positions from my antenatal class, pacing around the house incessantly and complaining about lack of sleep) but it turned out that this was all a folly, and nothing happened. Not even the faintest whiff of a contraction. Today I had an appointment to see the midwife for a sweep, which was nowhere near as bad as the Netmums forums would have one believe, but which the midwife didn't seem to hold out much hope of being successful, explaining that most first time mums needed several and she'd see me again next week for another one.
NEXT WEEK! I don't think I can cope with another week of re-reading What to Expect When You're Expecting yet again. Meanwhile, all but one of the other people from my antenatal class have now had their babies, despite the fact that I was due third (out of seven) Admittedly I didn't want a premature baby, nor did I want an emergency C-section following all manner of terrifying complications, as some of them endured, but still, WHEN IS THIS BABY COMING OUT????
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Friday, 25 July 2014
Monday, 14 July 2014
Hurry Up Or I'm Going To Lose the Sweepstake
No the baby has still not emerged. And tomorrow is 15th July, which is the date I predicted in the Baby Shower Sweepstake (no financial prizes, just the joy of winning), so it looks like I am going to have to take some drastic action to make the baby be born by the end of the day tomorrow. Several members of my antenatal class (whose babies have come early) suggested vigorous housework, but things aren't that desperate yet. And never will be. Instead, I have decided on walking. For a long time.
The only problem with this is that I tried it yesterday and it didn't work, possibly because I needed to sit down roughly every ten paces. Added to this is the fact that I cannot go anywhere too remote, due to lack of toilets. It's not so much fear of giving birth in a field that stops me, but fear of needing to empty my bladder in such a location; therefore any potential walking site will have to be within easy reach of pubs, cafes and other urban amenities. Also I will be wearing flip flops for the duration of this walk, as these are the only shoes I have, so no trundling through muddy fields.
Anyway, it doesn't look as though any walking will be taking place in the near future anyway as my brother and erstwhile walking partner (don't want to be walking alone, just in case the plan is a bit too successful) is still in bed. At 11.31am! How the youth of today live! I, meanwhile, have had an incredibly productive morning which consisted of cooking and eating an omelette, spending several hours on the internet researching what is supposed to happen at 39 weeks pregnant (answer: a load of waiting around) and watching the Jeremy Kyle Show, which I had to switch off after Jeremy unexpectedly changed the format mid-show from fighting imbeciles screaming obscenities at each other over one or more of the contestants' failures to get a job/see their children/admit to having children/remain sober to Jeremy himself "confronting his fear" of insects by being presented with a glass box full of cockroaches by two radioactively tanned people posing as psychotherapists. It's all become very American.
Other than that the last few days (weeks? months? I'm losing track. How long has it been now?) have passed in a blur of being quizzed by relatives about what I am going to call the baby and why do I keep changing my mind and don't forget to tell us as soon as there's any news (I can just imagine the entire extended family turning up at the hospital with cameras ready to record the happy event the moment I go into labour, only to watch me being turned away as I'm zero centimetres dilated), and my mother trying to convince me to move to Bristol with claims about how it is so nice here as you can just get on a bus or train and be in Weston-Super-Mare quite quickly.
I thought about this and then decided that a) Weston-Super-Mare is rubbish and you can't even see the sea from there, and b) where I currently live I can "just get on a bus or a train" and be in most of the nation's premier attractions within half an hour anyway, so the likes of a donkey ride on the beach and severe eye strain from trying to see the sea at Weston-Super-Mare hold very little appeal.
Although come to think of it, a donkey ride seemed to get the Virgin Mary's labour started pretty effectively, in fact to the point of needing to seek emergency shelter in a stable, so might be worth a try.
The only problem with this is that I tried it yesterday and it didn't work, possibly because I needed to sit down roughly every ten paces. Added to this is the fact that I cannot go anywhere too remote, due to lack of toilets. It's not so much fear of giving birth in a field that stops me, but fear of needing to empty my bladder in such a location; therefore any potential walking site will have to be within easy reach of pubs, cafes and other urban amenities. Also I will be wearing flip flops for the duration of this walk, as these are the only shoes I have, so no trundling through muddy fields.
Anyway, it doesn't look as though any walking will be taking place in the near future anyway as my brother and erstwhile walking partner (don't want to be walking alone, just in case the plan is a bit too successful) is still in bed. At 11.31am! How the youth of today live! I, meanwhile, have had an incredibly productive morning which consisted of cooking and eating an omelette, spending several hours on the internet researching what is supposed to happen at 39 weeks pregnant (answer: a load of waiting around) and watching the Jeremy Kyle Show, which I had to switch off after Jeremy unexpectedly changed the format mid-show from fighting imbeciles screaming obscenities at each other over one or more of the contestants' failures to get a job/see their children/admit to having children/remain sober to Jeremy himself "confronting his fear" of insects by being presented with a glass box full of cockroaches by two radioactively tanned people posing as psychotherapists. It's all become very American.
Other than that the last few days (weeks? months? I'm losing track. How long has it been now?) have passed in a blur of being quizzed by relatives about what I am going to call the baby and why do I keep changing my mind and don't forget to tell us as soon as there's any news (I can just imagine the entire extended family turning up at the hospital with cameras ready to record the happy event the moment I go into labour, only to watch me being turned away as I'm zero centimetres dilated), and my mother trying to convince me to move to Bristol with claims about how it is so nice here as you can just get on a bus or train and be in Weston-Super-Mare quite quickly.
I thought about this and then decided that a) Weston-Super-Mare is rubbish and you can't even see the sea from there, and b) where I currently live I can "just get on a bus or a train" and be in most of the nation's premier attractions within half an hour anyway, so the likes of a donkey ride on the beach and severe eye strain from trying to see the sea at Weston-Super-Mare hold very little appeal.
Although come to think of it, a donkey ride seemed to get the Virgin Mary's labour started pretty effectively, in fact to the point of needing to seek emergency shelter in a stable, so might be worth a try.
Wednesday, 9 July 2014
Baby Still Not Here. I Feel Sick. Probably Because it's my Birthday
Summary of my day so far: Got up, realised it was my birthday, threw up, returned to bed.
That pretty much says it all. Thirty-four just has such a great ring to it.
Just exactly what last night's mushroom omelette and chips were still doing in my system ten hours after they were eaten is anyone's guess. Does food just never get digested anymore? Does being pregnant mean that one no longer has intestines and food just sits there in the stomach, gradually congealing forever? The levels of acid reflux I am experiencing would suggest that it is so.
See, I told you this blog would be a veritable goldmine of Too Much Information.
In other news, the baby shows precisely no signs of wanting to come out yet, but then this is probably a good thing, since one would hardly want the prediction of one of my Year 11s "but miss, what if the baby comes on your birthday?" to come true, since that would mean never having a birthday ever again, but being condemned to spend own birthday in perpetuity stone-cold sober, trying to direct children's birthday party complete with overpriced party bags and screaming hordes of other people's children baying for cake. Even at 34, I'm not sure I'm ready for that kind of self-sacrifice.
Also, mercifully the fact that the baby has not come yet has allowed me some time to prepare. Preparing in this case means trekking to London and picking up piles of baby clothes, along with the few remaining threads that I can fit into, and organising an appointment with the midwife here in order to change hospitals, which I am feeling much better about now, as nobody within the NHS has sent out a lynch mob just yet. My brother has amusingly referred to the whole process as me being like a salmon, returning to the land of its birth in order to breed. Hopefully this doesn't mean I will not at some point in the future get away again, rather than be trapped forever as a house guest in single bed in my teenage bedroom which still has pink shelves on the wall which I adorned with glitter, and a door which, in a moment of arbitrary teenage madness and overexcitement at opening of local Ikea store, I painted purple, and which most tellingly of all still bears the blu-tac scars from the eighty-three pictures of Alessandro Del Piero I once festooned upon it. At least the pictures themselves-lovingly cut out of the pages of the Gazetta Dello Sport no less-are not still there.
Where exactly the baby is going to sleep at this point remains something of a mystery. My mother has kindly purchased a Moses basket, so he may well have to sit in it in the middle of the room like a bit of furniture or a suitcase no one quite knows where to put. Alternatively there's his car seat, which I have to admit looks very comfortable from where I'm sitting. Many's the time I've been tempted to park my expanding posterior in there, but I doubt I'd ever get out again and I'm not sure the safety tests are quite rigorous enough to see if the contraption will withstand overexcited parents trying to climb in with the-probably erroneous-belief that it might be more comfortable than a trip in the front seat with a neck pillow. Come to think of it, babies do have pretty nice lives. My brother has even expressed an interest in borrowing some of the Little One's clothes, although quite how he will look in a woollen sailor onesie from Le Petit Bateau is a matter of some debate.
Lastly, the only other noteworthy thing that has happened (it's been a slow day) is that according to the ancient scales in my mother's bedroom, I have lost three pounds. Either that is an error on the part of the scales or I have stopped expanding and this must mean that the baby is ready to be born, right?
Watch this space.
That pretty much says it all. Thirty-four just has such a great ring to it.
Just exactly what last night's mushroom omelette and chips were still doing in my system ten hours after they were eaten is anyone's guess. Does food just never get digested anymore? Does being pregnant mean that one no longer has intestines and food just sits there in the stomach, gradually congealing forever? The levels of acid reflux I am experiencing would suggest that it is so.
See, I told you this blog would be a veritable goldmine of Too Much Information.
In other news, the baby shows precisely no signs of wanting to come out yet, but then this is probably a good thing, since one would hardly want the prediction of one of my Year 11s "but miss, what if the baby comes on your birthday?" to come true, since that would mean never having a birthday ever again, but being condemned to spend own birthday in perpetuity stone-cold sober, trying to direct children's birthday party complete with overpriced party bags and screaming hordes of other people's children baying for cake. Even at 34, I'm not sure I'm ready for that kind of self-sacrifice.
Also, mercifully the fact that the baby has not come yet has allowed me some time to prepare. Preparing in this case means trekking to London and picking up piles of baby clothes, along with the few remaining threads that I can fit into, and organising an appointment with the midwife here in order to change hospitals, which I am feeling much better about now, as nobody within the NHS has sent out a lynch mob just yet. My brother has amusingly referred to the whole process as me being like a salmon, returning to the land of its birth in order to breed. Hopefully this doesn't mean I will not at some point in the future get away again, rather than be trapped forever as a house guest in single bed in my teenage bedroom which still has pink shelves on the wall which I adorned with glitter, and a door which, in a moment of arbitrary teenage madness and overexcitement at opening of local Ikea store, I painted purple, and which most tellingly of all still bears the blu-tac scars from the eighty-three pictures of Alessandro Del Piero I once festooned upon it. At least the pictures themselves-lovingly cut out of the pages of the Gazetta Dello Sport no less-are not still there.
Where exactly the baby is going to sleep at this point remains something of a mystery. My mother has kindly purchased a Moses basket, so he may well have to sit in it in the middle of the room like a bit of furniture or a suitcase no one quite knows where to put. Alternatively there's his car seat, which I have to admit looks very comfortable from where I'm sitting. Many's the time I've been tempted to park my expanding posterior in there, but I doubt I'd ever get out again and I'm not sure the safety tests are quite rigorous enough to see if the contraption will withstand overexcited parents trying to climb in with the-probably erroneous-belief that it might be more comfortable than a trip in the front seat with a neck pillow. Come to think of it, babies do have pretty nice lives. My brother has even expressed an interest in borrowing some of the Little One's clothes, although quite how he will look in a woollen sailor onesie from Le Petit Bateau is a matter of some debate.
Lastly, the only other noteworthy thing that has happened (it's been a slow day) is that according to the ancient scales in my mother's bedroom, I have lost three pounds. Either that is an error on the part of the scales or I have stopped expanding and this must mean that the baby is ready to be born, right?
Watch this space.
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Raspberry Leaf Tea and Other Examples of Unnecessary Scare-Mongering
Today I had three tasks to perform.
1.) Write a birth plan.
2.) Put the co-sleeper up in my bedroom.
3.) Tidy the flat.
I have failed at all three.
I did at least attempt number two, but it appears to be beyond my capabilities to piece together any kind of furniture in a secure manner befitting somewhere I will be laying my firstborn down to sleep, so I am going to have to admit defeat and ask my brother to do it. So much for being an independent woman.
Anyway, I am 37 weeks tomorrow, which is something of a milestone as this means the baby will no longer be considered premature if it was to be born tomorrow, and I will no longer need to call the hospital in panic if I go into labour. Instead, I can just stay here on my own and deliver the baby myself. Or something like that. Anyway, this may well end up being necessary tonight as I am about to go and drink some raspberry leaf tea, which is a drug so allegedly potent that women are advised not to drink it before 32 weeks in case it brings on premature labour. The NHS-endorsed Emma's Diary website actually warns that it should not be drunk at all, as its effects are unknown. Somehow, contrary to what it says on the tin (or at least in old wives' tale popular folklore), I suspect that these unknown effects do not include spontaneous labour and delivery, given that raspberry leaf tea seems to be strangely absent from the induction protocol of any hospital anywhere. Even Netmums, that usual haunt of badly written horror stories with appalling grammar where you can usually find hard evidence for pretty much any pregnancy myth ever, appears not to have too many tales of babies born suddenly and quickly after their mothers imbibed herbal tea.
Mercifully I have also not been able to find a shred of evidence for the Story of the Cyclops Baby which the loopy librarian at work decided to tell me shortly before my 20 week scan, after making a tenuous link between my students reading the Odyssey and cyclopses being an actual thing and not fictional monsters. One does not want to go into labour fretting about what horror might actually come out. It's bad enough that I've never even slept with the baby's father. There could be all sorts of unknowns lurking within without worrying about the baby having the conventionally accepted number of eyes. Although Loopy Librarian did attempt to soften the blow upon witnessing my horrified visage by explaining "it's some kind of problem with the brain. The baby died shortly afterwards anyway," as though that made it all right and it must have been a great relief to everyone. Some pregnancy horror stories are just too awful to be shared.
Anyway, I'm off to drink my raspberry leaf tea. If you don't hear from me in a while, you can assume I've gone into labour.
1.) Write a birth plan.
2.) Put the co-sleeper up in my bedroom.
3.) Tidy the flat.
I have failed at all three.
I did at least attempt number two, but it appears to be beyond my capabilities to piece together any kind of furniture in a secure manner befitting somewhere I will be laying my firstborn down to sleep, so I am going to have to admit defeat and ask my brother to do it. So much for being an independent woman.
Anyway, I am 37 weeks tomorrow, which is something of a milestone as this means the baby will no longer be considered premature if it was to be born tomorrow, and I will no longer need to call the hospital in panic if I go into labour. Instead, I can just stay here on my own and deliver the baby myself. Or something like that. Anyway, this may well end up being necessary tonight as I am about to go and drink some raspberry leaf tea, which is a drug so allegedly potent that women are advised not to drink it before 32 weeks in case it brings on premature labour. The NHS-endorsed Emma's Diary website actually warns that it should not be drunk at all, as its effects are unknown. Somehow, contrary to what it says on the tin (or at least in old wives' tale popular folklore), I suspect that these unknown effects do not include spontaneous labour and delivery, given that raspberry leaf tea seems to be strangely absent from the induction protocol of any hospital anywhere. Even Netmums, that usual haunt of badly written horror stories with appalling grammar where you can usually find hard evidence for pretty much any pregnancy myth ever, appears not to have too many tales of babies born suddenly and quickly after their mothers imbibed herbal tea.
Mercifully I have also not been able to find a shred of evidence for the Story of the Cyclops Baby which the loopy librarian at work decided to tell me shortly before my 20 week scan, after making a tenuous link between my students reading the Odyssey and cyclopses being an actual thing and not fictional monsters. One does not want to go into labour fretting about what horror might actually come out. It's bad enough that I've never even slept with the baby's father. There could be all sorts of unknowns lurking within without worrying about the baby having the conventionally accepted number of eyes. Although Loopy Librarian did attempt to soften the blow upon witnessing my horrified visage by explaining "it's some kind of problem with the brain. The baby died shortly afterwards anyway," as though that made it all right and it must have been a great relief to everyone. Some pregnancy horror stories are just too awful to be shared.
Anyway, I'm off to drink my raspberry leaf tea. If you don't hear from me in a while, you can assume I've gone into labour.
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
Too many choices....
Now I appreciate that this sounds like an odd thing to say, and also as if I m moaning (again) but sitting on this sofa really isn't the pleasant and comfortable experience that DFS intended it to be.
This of course is not the fault of the sofa, which is, under normal circumstances, very comfortable indeed, and entirely the fault of the beachball-like appendage attached to my midriff. I am told that birthing balls are good in these circumstances, but I am not sure they are good for balancing a laptop or, for that matter, my dinner. Also, what does one do with a birthing ball after one has given birth? It hardly seems worth the time, expense or sacrifice of harmonious interior design.
Anyway, the baby's head is now engaged. At least, this is what I was told by the midwife today. She also thinks he may have turned around and be facing the right way. HALLELUJAH. Hopefully this means I will not have to endure "back labour" and be screaming for an epidural before I've managed to breathe through the first contraction. Although that said, someone at work was singing the praises of epidurals today and saying she couldn't believe she had endured her first two labours with only gas and air and wished she's realised the benefits of painlessness sooner. I am so confused. I thought epidurals were all wrong and a way of evil male doctors reinforcing the patriarchy by making women lie down and endure being ripped apart with forceps and scalpels. I mean, that's what my hypnobirthing books say. I am so confused. My hypnobirthing books also say women in Africa give birth by finding a suitably secluded tree, then crouching down and breathing the baby out painlessly, which contrasts hugely with what I've read in the Guardian, which says women in Africa are all suffering needlessly long labours which last for weeks on end and culminate in obstetric fistula. In whom is a confused mother-to-be to place her trust? The Guardian probably has a better claim to authenticity, given that it has previously been right about a number of things, such as that Jeremy Clarkson is a knob and that nobody looks good in dungarees, but then I did see a recipe for saag paneer in there today that didn't include tomatoes and I like tomatoes in my saag paneer, so perhaps I cannot live my life blindly following the Rules of Being a Liberal Feminist set by the Guardian. Also I remain conflicted by an article I read in there a while ago which suggested that same-sex marriage should be opposed by all right-thinking liberals as marriage as a concept reinforces the patriarchal idea that women are the chattels of their husbands and therefore no one-gay or straight-should get married.
The latter is a convenient view for a washed up spinster such as myself to pretend to have, though.
Although the Gaurdian also says I am not a washed up spinster, and that no woman should feel defined by their marital status or how good the Daily Mail says they look in a bikini, which is an even more convenient view to have.
GOD I AM SO CONFLICTED ABOUT LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING. How am I going to write a birth plan expressing my "choices" when there is no consensus about what the right choice is, ever, about anything?
This of course is not the fault of the sofa, which is, under normal circumstances, very comfortable indeed, and entirely the fault of the beachball-like appendage attached to my midriff. I am told that birthing balls are good in these circumstances, but I am not sure they are good for balancing a laptop or, for that matter, my dinner. Also, what does one do with a birthing ball after one has given birth? It hardly seems worth the time, expense or sacrifice of harmonious interior design.
Anyway, the baby's head is now engaged. At least, this is what I was told by the midwife today. She also thinks he may have turned around and be facing the right way. HALLELUJAH. Hopefully this means I will not have to endure "back labour" and be screaming for an epidural before I've managed to breathe through the first contraction. Although that said, someone at work was singing the praises of epidurals today and saying she couldn't believe she had endured her first two labours with only gas and air and wished she's realised the benefits of painlessness sooner. I am so confused. I thought epidurals were all wrong and a way of evil male doctors reinforcing the patriarchy by making women lie down and endure being ripped apart with forceps and scalpels. I mean, that's what my hypnobirthing books say. I am so confused. My hypnobirthing books also say women in Africa give birth by finding a suitably secluded tree, then crouching down and breathing the baby out painlessly, which contrasts hugely with what I've read in the Guardian, which says women in Africa are all suffering needlessly long labours which last for weeks on end and culminate in obstetric fistula. In whom is a confused mother-to-be to place her trust? The Guardian probably has a better claim to authenticity, given that it has previously been right about a number of things, such as that Jeremy Clarkson is a knob and that nobody looks good in dungarees, but then I did see a recipe for saag paneer in there today that didn't include tomatoes and I like tomatoes in my saag paneer, so perhaps I cannot live my life blindly following the Rules of Being a Liberal Feminist set by the Guardian. Also I remain conflicted by an article I read in there a while ago which suggested that same-sex marriage should be opposed by all right-thinking liberals as marriage as a concept reinforces the patriarchal idea that women are the chattels of their husbands and therefore no one-gay or straight-should get married.
The latter is a convenient view for a washed up spinster such as myself to pretend to have, though.
Although the Gaurdian also says I am not a washed up spinster, and that no woman should feel defined by their marital status or how good the Daily Mail says they look in a bikini, which is an even more convenient view to have.
GOD I AM SO CONFLICTED ABOUT LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING. How am I going to write a birth plan expressing my "choices" when there is no consensus about what the right choice is, ever, about anything?
Saturday, 21 June 2014
Bloated Whale
Urgh. Lounging on the sofa like a bloated whale. And every now and again my belly goes all hard and pointy, and I am told that this may be a Braxton Hicks contraction. I had thought it was just the baby moving around. Still, hopefully this means that by the time I finally go into labour my body will know what it's doing.
Anyway, just because I am a glutton for punishment, today I went to Topshop (my haul: a pair of leggings and a T-shirt) and American Apparel, where I almost wept as I yet again realised I will probably never again be slim enough to wear a crop top, and had to settle for something called a "tent dress."
And on top of all this, I feel sick. In fact, last night I woke up at 3am and actually was sick. I have become disgusting. This better be worth it.
Anyway, just because I am a glutton for punishment, today I went to Topshop (my haul: a pair of leggings and a T-shirt) and American Apparel, where I almost wept as I yet again realised I will probably never again be slim enough to wear a crop top, and had to settle for something called a "tent dress."
And on top of all this, I feel sick. In fact, last night I woke up at 3am and actually was sick. I have become disgusting. This better be worth it.
Sunday, 15 June 2014
Suddenly inhabiting weird parallel universe consisting entirely of Bugaboo Bees
Well the World Cup has now started and I missed my first England World Cup game since about 1982 simply because I was too tired to stay up and watch it. Now watching France vs Honduras and although it's only 9pm and I had a nap earlier I am already yawning profusely.
Ooh France have just scored. Looks like they have finally introduced goal-line technology.
Anyway, I am beginning to feel increasingly like an invalid. A huge, bloated whale of an invalid at that. Today I was wearing one of the few dresses that still fit-a floor-length blue vintage number-with flip flops, and had the sudden realisation that I looked like the Virgin Mary, escaped from the nativity play and roaming the streets, sans donkey, looking for some room at the inn. As my brother quite rightly pointed out, I even had the immaculate conception to match.
Speaking of clothes that don't fit, yesterday my mother and I went to Westfield and I am now the proud owner of two nursing bras, which I think I am going to be wearing from now on as I have actual scars on my breasts from trying to squeeze into my normal ones. We also bought breast pads (eugh), disposable knickers (EUGH) and worst of all, giant maternity pads (EEUUUGGHH), which are all apparently things I am going to need. I very much doubt I will ever have sex ever again. With all the waddling around, I started getting pains that felt like severe period pains in my back and front and at one point (round about the stage I was doubled over in Boots, buying the breast pads thinking this is definitely the end of my life as a style icon and woman about town) I actually thought I was going into labour. Today my mother was so worried this was going to happen she wouldn't even let me salsa dance at the Marylebone Summer Fayre-probably the world's most middle class event, which we had accidentally stumbled into and which became something of an ordeal for my brother as my mother and I spent literally every moment exclaiming "look, ANOTHER Bugaboo Bee! I've never seen so many Bugaboo Bees in my life! It's like a Bugaboo Bee conference!" to each other repeatedly. Looks like I have the Marylebone It Pushchair. I either have very middle class tastes, or I am a total trend-follower. Or both.
Anyway, I am going to have to go now as I literally cannot stay awake any longer. I'm off to dream crazy pregnant dreams about the baby kicking a hole in my stomach again.
Ooh France have just scored. Looks like they have finally introduced goal-line technology.
Anyway, I am beginning to feel increasingly like an invalid. A huge, bloated whale of an invalid at that. Today I was wearing one of the few dresses that still fit-a floor-length blue vintage number-with flip flops, and had the sudden realisation that I looked like the Virgin Mary, escaped from the nativity play and roaming the streets, sans donkey, looking for some room at the inn. As my brother quite rightly pointed out, I even had the immaculate conception to match.
Speaking of clothes that don't fit, yesterday my mother and I went to Westfield and I am now the proud owner of two nursing bras, which I think I am going to be wearing from now on as I have actual scars on my breasts from trying to squeeze into my normal ones. We also bought breast pads (eugh), disposable knickers (EUGH) and worst of all, giant maternity pads (EEUUUGGHH), which are all apparently things I am going to need. I very much doubt I will ever have sex ever again. With all the waddling around, I started getting pains that felt like severe period pains in my back and front and at one point (round about the stage I was doubled over in Boots, buying the breast pads thinking this is definitely the end of my life as a style icon and woman about town) I actually thought I was going into labour. Today my mother was so worried this was going to happen she wouldn't even let me salsa dance at the Marylebone Summer Fayre-probably the world's most middle class event, which we had accidentally stumbled into and which became something of an ordeal for my brother as my mother and I spent literally every moment exclaiming "look, ANOTHER Bugaboo Bee! I've never seen so many Bugaboo Bees in my life! It's like a Bugaboo Bee conference!" to each other repeatedly. Looks like I have the Marylebone It Pushchair. I either have very middle class tastes, or I am a total trend-follower. Or both.
Anyway, I am going to have to go now as I literally cannot stay awake any longer. I'm off to dream crazy pregnant dreams about the baby kicking a hole in my stomach again.
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
So it turns out you can have such a thing as too much protein
Had an appointment with the midwife today. This was the first appointment I have had where things did not go entirely according to plan.
I had, for a start, completely forgotten to do my urine sample, and had to try to squeeze it all out in the delightful conditions of the toilet in the GP's surgery, which has signs pinned up all around it advising people not to make a mess and informing the plebs that should they have an "accident" they should inform reception so that they can "help you clean it up."
I can only imagine the utter humiliation of having to have that conversation in the reception area with ten thousand people queueing up behind you and the assembled masses squeezed into the waiting room like sheep off to slaughter.
Also, is everybody in Wembley suffering from double incontinence? Why does that sign even need to be up at all? The last "accident" I had was on the way to gymnastics class in 1987 and even at the tender age I was then I managed not to wreck anything beyond my own leotard.
Anyway, I had the opposite problem as I only managed to squeeze out one tiny drop into the container, an embarrassingly poor effort on my part. Even so, the midwife was still able to test this and confidently proclaim that it contained protein.
PROTEIN. I'm not sure I even eat enough protein, let alone have such a surplus of it that it's coming out in my urine. This can only be A BAD THING. A very bad thing, according to my knowledgeable searches on the internets, as this could be the start of pre-eclampsia, and that's the thing that killed poor Lady Sybil in Downton Abbey.
OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE LIKE LADY SYBIL!!!!!!!!!!
Well, OK, the midwife did have an alternative explanation for this. She thought it might be a urine infection. Not sure if anyone ever died from one of those, but it may mean I need to take antibiotics, which I will doubtless feel guilty about as will be contributing to the global epidemic of antibiotic-resistant bacteria that will one day wipe us out and take over the planet. I can just imagine it now, me being rudely evicted from my flat by two tiny yet mighty blobs called Mr Bubonic Plague and Miss Small Pox, and them sitting down to enjoy a nice TV dinner on my cosy leather sofa in front of a BBC4 documentary about how these things called humans used to live on Planet Earth and they were really nasty and used to kill each other all the time in these things called Wars back in Ye Olden Days, and how Miss Small Pox herself nearly became extinct but luckily one of these humans had the foresight to keep her alive in captivity in a high security storage facility in America in case she might be needed for one of these Wars; and how Mr Bubonic Plague was briefly forced to eke out a miserable existence living in bins when those naughty humans proliferated.
Anyway, enough about diseases (although can I just say, not too long ago I read an article on the "Top Ten Worst Diseases Ever" and the worst one was something someone apparently had once in the Middle Ages where these insects burrowed inside his body and then multiplied until there were so many of them coming out of him that his servants had to maintain a constant routine of collecting them in buckets and emptying them into the sea until he finally died, eaten alive by insects. IMAGINE IF THAT ONE CAME BACK). The main point is I might have a urine infection, and this is kind of annoying.
Also, the baby is still back to back, and I'm not sure what to do about this as all the advice I have read says I should sit in a leaning forward position, but this is impossible as my bump is in the way.
Still, if last night's antenatal class is anything to go by, all this might be the least of my concerns as when the baby is born, apparently my life is not only going to not involve never being able to drink a cup of tea from start to finish ever again, but every day will be one long panic about whether or not I have or am about to accidentally kill the baby. Yes, apparently the whole flat (or any building in which the baby spends any time) needs to be maintained at a constant temperature of eighteen degrees celsius, the baby cannot under any circumstances have a duvet, it must lie on its back at all times, you cannot fall asleep on the sofa anywhere near it and it's going to spend all day every day crying because you are a terrible parent who doesn't know how to breastfeed, bathe a baby without drowning or scalding it, swaddle it properly or change its nappy, and it wishes it had been born into some nice family with two parents and a car and a proper house instead of to wretched old you.
I cannot wait.
I had, for a start, completely forgotten to do my urine sample, and had to try to squeeze it all out in the delightful conditions of the toilet in the GP's surgery, which has signs pinned up all around it advising people not to make a mess and informing the plebs that should they have an "accident" they should inform reception so that they can "help you clean it up."
I can only imagine the utter humiliation of having to have that conversation in the reception area with ten thousand people queueing up behind you and the assembled masses squeezed into the waiting room like sheep off to slaughter.
Also, is everybody in Wembley suffering from double incontinence? Why does that sign even need to be up at all? The last "accident" I had was on the way to gymnastics class in 1987 and even at the tender age I was then I managed not to wreck anything beyond my own leotard.
Anyway, I had the opposite problem as I only managed to squeeze out one tiny drop into the container, an embarrassingly poor effort on my part. Even so, the midwife was still able to test this and confidently proclaim that it contained protein.
PROTEIN. I'm not sure I even eat enough protein, let alone have such a surplus of it that it's coming out in my urine. This can only be A BAD THING. A very bad thing, according to my knowledgeable searches on the internets, as this could be the start of pre-eclampsia, and that's the thing that killed poor Lady Sybil in Downton Abbey.
OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE LIKE LADY SYBIL!!!!!!!!!!
Well, OK, the midwife did have an alternative explanation for this. She thought it might be a urine infection. Not sure if anyone ever died from one of those, but it may mean I need to take antibiotics, which I will doubtless feel guilty about as will be contributing to the global epidemic of antibiotic-resistant bacteria that will one day wipe us out and take over the planet. I can just imagine it now, me being rudely evicted from my flat by two tiny yet mighty blobs called Mr Bubonic Plague and Miss Small Pox, and them sitting down to enjoy a nice TV dinner on my cosy leather sofa in front of a BBC4 documentary about how these things called humans used to live on Planet Earth and they were really nasty and used to kill each other all the time in these things called Wars back in Ye Olden Days, and how Miss Small Pox herself nearly became extinct but luckily one of these humans had the foresight to keep her alive in captivity in a high security storage facility in America in case she might be needed for one of these Wars; and how Mr Bubonic Plague was briefly forced to eke out a miserable existence living in bins when those naughty humans proliferated.
Anyway, enough about diseases (although can I just say, not too long ago I read an article on the "Top Ten Worst Diseases Ever" and the worst one was something someone apparently had once in the Middle Ages where these insects burrowed inside his body and then multiplied until there were so many of them coming out of him that his servants had to maintain a constant routine of collecting them in buckets and emptying them into the sea until he finally died, eaten alive by insects. IMAGINE IF THAT ONE CAME BACK). The main point is I might have a urine infection, and this is kind of annoying.
Also, the baby is still back to back, and I'm not sure what to do about this as all the advice I have read says I should sit in a leaning forward position, but this is impossible as my bump is in the way.
Still, if last night's antenatal class is anything to go by, all this might be the least of my concerns as when the baby is born, apparently my life is not only going to not involve never being able to drink a cup of tea from start to finish ever again, but every day will be one long panic about whether or not I have or am about to accidentally kill the baby. Yes, apparently the whole flat (or any building in which the baby spends any time) needs to be maintained at a constant temperature of eighteen degrees celsius, the baby cannot under any circumstances have a duvet, it must lie on its back at all times, you cannot fall asleep on the sofa anywhere near it and it's going to spend all day every day crying because you are a terrible parent who doesn't know how to breastfeed, bathe a baby without drowning or scalding it, swaddle it properly or change its nappy, and it wishes it had been born into some nice family with two parents and a car and a proper house instead of to wretched old you.
I cannot wait.
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
On the hunt for a Vivienne Westwood birthing dress
Today I am mostly panicking about: baby positions.
That's right, it turns out that there is an optimum position for Baby to be lying in for the most desirable, Call the Midwife-style, two pushes and they're out form of childbirth which I am hoping to emulate.
And this, despite my jubilation at being told at my 28 week appointment that the baby was "head down," is not the position that Little One is currently adopting. Although he is probably head down, it seems that he is also what is known as "back to back," meaning a more difficult and painful labour could be ahead.
I blame myself. Apparently (so saith the Great Sage of Childbirth, the Internet) this is because nowadays we spend all our time lolling on sofas watching TV and surfing the internets instead of behaving like proper women and getting down on all fours to spend hours scrubbing floors. I have probably never felt so guilty about my total lack of interest in cleaning. Apparently the remedy for this is to spend as much time as possible on all fours, crawling about the house or sitting on a "birthing ball," something which I had up until this point considered a totally useless and co-ordinated flat decor-ruining item.
In other news, not only do I need to be getting around the place via the medium of crawling from now on, but I also need to be eating foods high in iron, as I am anaemic and so far my efforts to extract a prescription for iron tablets from the NHS have been farcical (twice I have been to the GP surgery only to find they have no record of my prescription request. Thank God I'm off work this week. In other work vs. NHS horrors, I am supposed to go for a repeat blood test at the hospital in a few weeks, but cannot make an appointment as bizarrely you just walk in for a blood test, although it has to be between the hours of 1pm and 2pm, which is of absolutely no use whatsoever when you have an employer who wants to see evidence of every appointment. What am I supposed to do, take a selfie in the clinic?)
Lastly, the other main news this week is that I am surprisingly fussy about what I wear in bed, especially if that outfit is likely to be seen by the masses in hospital. Usually I don't wear anything in bed, which is why it surprises me that I have suddenly become so fussy, but given that the likes of my mother and brother probably don't want me strutting around their house in the buff when I am staying with them after the birth (well actually my mother probably doesn't care, given the amount of times she has brazenly wandered around naked, causing my brothers and I to start screaming and covering our eyes-even now when we are supposedly sensible adults. My brother, on the other hand, definitely will care, especially given his reaction to my bump-flashing the other day, when he shrieked "EWWW! What is THAT???" at my bloated belly button).
Due to my need to buy some pyjamas for giving birth, breastfeeding and generally not frightening the horses, I spent much of yesterday trawling around Westfield, where I managed to buy a grand total of nothing-except a thermometer. A must-have, according to the teacher in my antenatal class. One thing the bloated belly now does, entertainingly, as well as provoke reactions from random passers-by "Ooh how cute! What are you having? When are you due? Ooh, SOON!" is ensure that whenever one enters Mothercare, one cannot look at an overpriced pushchair for even a nanosecond without being pursued by over-eager salespeople swooping in like seagulls around a sandwich. Anyway, back to pyjamas. Why is it that they are either too big (M&S), too wintry (giant bunny onesies. Why? Also awkward to get out of when giving needing easy access for giving birth), too see-through or too chavvy (thank you La Senza for the latter. I didn't realise that budding Katie Prices could still actually buy fluffy sequinned leopard print Ugg boot slippers with leopard print velour hotpant and T-shirt sleepwear combos for those all-important "just got out of bed and couldn't be arsed to wear proper clothes" paparazzi shots). When my brother heard I was looking for an outfit to give birth in, he may have unwittingly identified a niche in the market with his comment, "What are you looking for? A Vivienne Westwood birthing dress?"
Please make one Viv. I can only imagine how brilliant that would be.
That's right, it turns out that there is an optimum position for Baby to be lying in for the most desirable, Call the Midwife-style, two pushes and they're out form of childbirth which I am hoping to emulate.
And this, despite my jubilation at being told at my 28 week appointment that the baby was "head down," is not the position that Little One is currently adopting. Although he is probably head down, it seems that he is also what is known as "back to back," meaning a more difficult and painful labour could be ahead.
I blame myself. Apparently (so saith the Great Sage of Childbirth, the Internet) this is because nowadays we spend all our time lolling on sofas watching TV and surfing the internets instead of behaving like proper women and getting down on all fours to spend hours scrubbing floors. I have probably never felt so guilty about my total lack of interest in cleaning. Apparently the remedy for this is to spend as much time as possible on all fours, crawling about the house or sitting on a "birthing ball," something which I had up until this point considered a totally useless and co-ordinated flat decor-ruining item.
In other news, not only do I need to be getting around the place via the medium of crawling from now on, but I also need to be eating foods high in iron, as I am anaemic and so far my efforts to extract a prescription for iron tablets from the NHS have been farcical (twice I have been to the GP surgery only to find they have no record of my prescription request. Thank God I'm off work this week. In other work vs. NHS horrors, I am supposed to go for a repeat blood test at the hospital in a few weeks, but cannot make an appointment as bizarrely you just walk in for a blood test, although it has to be between the hours of 1pm and 2pm, which is of absolutely no use whatsoever when you have an employer who wants to see evidence of every appointment. What am I supposed to do, take a selfie in the clinic?)
Lastly, the other main news this week is that I am surprisingly fussy about what I wear in bed, especially if that outfit is likely to be seen by the masses in hospital. Usually I don't wear anything in bed, which is why it surprises me that I have suddenly become so fussy, but given that the likes of my mother and brother probably don't want me strutting around their house in the buff when I am staying with them after the birth (well actually my mother probably doesn't care, given the amount of times she has brazenly wandered around naked, causing my brothers and I to start screaming and covering our eyes-even now when we are supposedly sensible adults. My brother, on the other hand, definitely will care, especially given his reaction to my bump-flashing the other day, when he shrieked "EWWW! What is THAT???" at my bloated belly button).
Due to my need to buy some pyjamas for giving birth, breastfeeding and generally not frightening the horses, I spent much of yesterday trawling around Westfield, where I managed to buy a grand total of nothing-except a thermometer. A must-have, according to the teacher in my antenatal class. One thing the bloated belly now does, entertainingly, as well as provoke reactions from random passers-by "Ooh how cute! What are you having? When are you due? Ooh, SOON!" is ensure that whenever one enters Mothercare, one cannot look at an overpriced pushchair for even a nanosecond without being pursued by over-eager salespeople swooping in like seagulls around a sandwich. Anyway, back to pyjamas. Why is it that they are either too big (M&S), too wintry (giant bunny onesies. Why? Also awkward to get out of when giving needing easy access for giving birth), too see-through or too chavvy (thank you La Senza for the latter. I didn't realise that budding Katie Prices could still actually buy fluffy sequinned leopard print Ugg boot slippers with leopard print velour hotpant and T-shirt sleepwear combos for those all-important "just got out of bed and couldn't be arsed to wear proper clothes" paparazzi shots). When my brother heard I was looking for an outfit to give birth in, he may have unwittingly identified a niche in the market with his comment, "What are you looking for? A Vivienne Westwood birthing dress?"
Please make one Viv. I can only imagine how brilliant that would be.
Tuesday, 29 April 2014
Newsflash: Women's Breasts Apparently Not Designed For Men
Hallelujah! Apparently the baby is "probably head down, although the head hasn't dropped into the pelvis yet."
Presumably this means he's already starting to gear up for birth.
Obviously do not want baby to be born immediately, but at least he isn't in a weird position. At least not at the moment (probably shouldn't speak too soon).
So today I had another appointment with the consultant at the hospital, and the good news is, as long as everything continues to be fine, I won't need to see them again and can just continue to see the midwife. Although they also told me to cancel tomorrow's appointment with the midwife as there's no point doing all the same tests two days running, so no lie-in for me, followed by a lovely breakfast at Pret A Manger and leisurely few hours off work tomorrow then, which had been pretty much what I had been looking forward to most this week, but instead I'll have to take solace in the fact that I missed an undoubtedly tedious meeting at work this afternoon instead.
Also, I feel I should report that there were fewer "how not to kill your baby" information videos on the hospital screens today. Instead myself and the other pregnant whales (I swear I have never seen so many pregnant women in one room) were treated to such enlightening statements as "some people say your breasts are for men, but for me they are for feeding my child" from the breastfeeding information video.
Now I don't know if it's just that I am particularly highly educated (even if I do say so myself, thank you ladies and gentlemen, I'll take plaudits where I can) or if I have a particularly high degree of common sense, but it had not at any point occurred to me that the evolutionary purpose of my bosoms, such as they are, for I am not over-endowed in that area, are for any purpose other than feeding children. I am not such a fool as to suppose that the highest point of all evolution is the ability to flaunt one's assets to the nation on Page 3 of the Sun, a newspaper I found lying around on the train on the way to work this morning and actually physically turned away and stopped myself picking up to read when I saw that it was that particular rag, and not, as I had at first assumed, a discarded copy of the Metro. And yet the NHS must spend billions on this patronising claptrap.
Ironically, it was only last week that a good friend of mine, who has three children ranging in age from ten to seven months, told me that when she was breastfeeding her first child, she had been advised to wean at four months, and in the space of ten years that advice has somehow leapt up to at least six months. Could it be that before long we regularly see eighteen year olds going off to university having one last tearful feed at their mother's breast before the final cutting of the apron strings? My own mother was advised to stop breastfeeding me at three weeks, so it looks as though that could be the way things are going. Or maybe we'll be caught in an eternal vicious cycle of Those In The Know constantly changing their minds and going right back to a policy of formula feeding for all. Who knows?
Anyway, I'm off to practise my breathing again. I thought I'd almost got the hang of it last night so hopefully by the time Little One decides to make an appearance I'll be a pro.
Presumably this means he's already starting to gear up for birth.
Obviously do not want baby to be born immediately, but at least he isn't in a weird position. At least not at the moment (probably shouldn't speak too soon).
So today I had another appointment with the consultant at the hospital, and the good news is, as long as everything continues to be fine, I won't need to see them again and can just continue to see the midwife. Although they also told me to cancel tomorrow's appointment with the midwife as there's no point doing all the same tests two days running, so no lie-in for me, followed by a lovely breakfast at Pret A Manger and leisurely few hours off work tomorrow then, which had been pretty much what I had been looking forward to most this week, but instead I'll have to take solace in the fact that I missed an undoubtedly tedious meeting at work this afternoon instead.
Also, I feel I should report that there were fewer "how not to kill your baby" information videos on the hospital screens today. Instead myself and the other pregnant whales (I swear I have never seen so many pregnant women in one room) were treated to such enlightening statements as "some people say your breasts are for men, but for me they are for feeding my child" from the breastfeeding information video.
Now I don't know if it's just that I am particularly highly educated (even if I do say so myself, thank you ladies and gentlemen, I'll take plaudits where I can) or if I have a particularly high degree of common sense, but it had not at any point occurred to me that the evolutionary purpose of my bosoms, such as they are, for I am not over-endowed in that area, are for any purpose other than feeding children. I am not such a fool as to suppose that the highest point of all evolution is the ability to flaunt one's assets to the nation on Page 3 of the Sun, a newspaper I found lying around on the train on the way to work this morning and actually physically turned away and stopped myself picking up to read when I saw that it was that particular rag, and not, as I had at first assumed, a discarded copy of the Metro. And yet the NHS must spend billions on this patronising claptrap.
Ironically, it was only last week that a good friend of mine, who has three children ranging in age from ten to seven months, told me that when she was breastfeeding her first child, she had been advised to wean at four months, and in the space of ten years that advice has somehow leapt up to at least six months. Could it be that before long we regularly see eighteen year olds going off to university having one last tearful feed at their mother's breast before the final cutting of the apron strings? My own mother was advised to stop breastfeeding me at three weeks, so it looks as though that could be the way things are going. Or maybe we'll be caught in an eternal vicious cycle of Those In The Know constantly changing their minds and going right back to a policy of formula feeding for all. Who knows?
Anyway, I'm off to practise my breathing again. I thought I'd almost got the hang of it last night so hopefully by the time Little One decides to make an appearance I'll be a pro.
Monday, 21 April 2014
So this is what it feels like to be, in the words of the bloke from Fat Families, a "Massive Fatty"
Today's most pressing questions:
1.) By having a baby with a sperm donor, am I inadvertently ruining the lives of the next generation, who will be destined to resent me and be forever miserable, and
2.) WHY DOES IT HURT SO MUCH WHEN I EAT????
With regard to the second one, I am currently lying prostrate on the sofa, unable to get into any position that could be remotely described as "comfortable," purely due to my having just eaten dinner. It literally feels like my stomach is squeezed up underneath my rib cage. Probably because it is. O the joys of pregnancy, wanting to eat everything in sight and then being unable to contain it all in my squashed stomach. This must be what it feels like to have a gastric band. I promise I will never berate fat people ever again. Honest.
Also, being fat must be bloody hard work. I have only put on a stone (so far), and already I find myself having to use the disabled entrance at the tube station, lest I give myself a coronary by heaving my bloated body up the steps; a feat that now requires at least twenty minutes of recovery time at the top, clinging breathlessly to the bannister and panting deeply whilst clutching my distended stomach. And I'm still only 27 weeks! What will become of me in ten weeks time when I'm still having to drag myself to work and do a job like a normal human being who's not constantly carrying someone else?
Anyway, mustn't complain. After all, being pregnant is basically brilliant, especially the little kicks and movements I am subjected to daily by the Little One, causing me to while away endless hours feeling bits of my belly and speculating on whether I can feel tiny feet beneath the skin.
I will try not to depress myself by reading the many angry stories from children of sperm donors that can be found on the internet, bemoaning their lack of normal parentage and making me think that it's only a matter of time before Little One rejects me entirely as the reprobate who denied him a father and messed up his entire life, and concentrate on the little tiny feet.
1.) By having a baby with a sperm donor, am I inadvertently ruining the lives of the next generation, who will be destined to resent me and be forever miserable, and
2.) WHY DOES IT HURT SO MUCH WHEN I EAT????
With regard to the second one, I am currently lying prostrate on the sofa, unable to get into any position that could be remotely described as "comfortable," purely due to my having just eaten dinner. It literally feels like my stomach is squeezed up underneath my rib cage. Probably because it is. O the joys of pregnancy, wanting to eat everything in sight and then being unable to contain it all in my squashed stomach. This must be what it feels like to have a gastric band. I promise I will never berate fat people ever again. Honest.
Also, being fat must be bloody hard work. I have only put on a stone (so far), and already I find myself having to use the disabled entrance at the tube station, lest I give myself a coronary by heaving my bloated body up the steps; a feat that now requires at least twenty minutes of recovery time at the top, clinging breathlessly to the bannister and panting deeply whilst clutching my distended stomach. And I'm still only 27 weeks! What will become of me in ten weeks time when I'm still having to drag myself to work and do a job like a normal human being who's not constantly carrying someone else?
Anyway, mustn't complain. After all, being pregnant is basically brilliant, especially the little kicks and movements I am subjected to daily by the Little One, causing me to while away endless hours feeling bits of my belly and speculating on whether I can feel tiny feet beneath the skin.
I will try not to depress myself by reading the many angry stories from children of sperm donors that can be found on the internet, bemoaning their lack of normal parentage and making me think that it's only a matter of time before Little One rejects me entirely as the reprobate who denied him a father and messed up his entire life, and concentrate on the little tiny feet.
Friday, 18 April 2014
How Not To Balls Up Your Baby's Life Forever. Apparently.
Today is a momentous day.
Yes, today a stranger offered me his seat on the tube.
I am now officially a big fat pregnant woman, make no mistake. And I am loving it. The baby appears to enjoy putting his feet up by my belly button, so my new favourite game, as discovered last night, is poking him in the foot. Not hard, obviously. In fact, judging by his lack of reaction to this tonight, he probably doesn't even notice I'm doing it. It must be very odd being a baby and being stuck in the womb, and then coming out all of a sudden.
I don't know why I just said that, I mean, I was a baby once apparently. I've seen photographic evidence of this, even though I don't remember any of it.
The problem is, I've read so much informative literature on babies recently, that I've become very worried about the effect of all of my actions on the Mini-Me, particularly those related to after he's born. For a start, I have singularly failed to do much talking to the baby in the womb. Nor have I played him classical music, although I did play Saturday Night by Whigfield to him today, as obviously he will be very interested in learning about the days of my youth, in much the same way that I used to persistently ask my parents what life was like in the sixties, as if they spent the entire decade holed up in Carnaby Street with Twiggy and Mick Jagger, instead of going to school and getting pimples, like the ordinary teenagers that they were.
Anyway, I worry that my failure to teach Baby the joys of Mozart or provide him with scintillating conversation in the womb may have damaged him for life, in much the same way that I worry that if the whole birth thing takes an unexpected turn and I end up being wheeled in for a caesarean, or with those giant tong things between my legs (forceps-urgh) then the baby will be traumatised for the rest of his life after having such a terrifying start to life, as my hypnobirthing books warn.
It seems a bit presumptuous though to assume that a difficult birth means a lifetime of trauma, given that I've never met a single person who can remember theirs, regardless of how euphoric or awful it was. Mine, for the record, involved an emergency caesarean, and although I don't remember the "stress" that I was apparently suffering at the time, I do remember the glow of self-satisfaction I had when my mother told me that the first she saw of me I was all pink and cuddly and wrapped in swaddling bands, having been freshly laundered before before being presented to her, unlike all those natural-birth babies who first greet their parents as a bloody, screaming mess.
Anyway, I'm off to read some more information on How Not To Balls Up Your Baby's Life Forever. By the time this baby is actually born, I'll be terrified to do anything at all.
Yes, today a stranger offered me his seat on the tube.
I am now officially a big fat pregnant woman, make no mistake. And I am loving it. The baby appears to enjoy putting his feet up by my belly button, so my new favourite game, as discovered last night, is poking him in the foot. Not hard, obviously. In fact, judging by his lack of reaction to this tonight, he probably doesn't even notice I'm doing it. It must be very odd being a baby and being stuck in the womb, and then coming out all of a sudden.
I don't know why I just said that, I mean, I was a baby once apparently. I've seen photographic evidence of this, even though I don't remember any of it.
The problem is, I've read so much informative literature on babies recently, that I've become very worried about the effect of all of my actions on the Mini-Me, particularly those related to after he's born. For a start, I have singularly failed to do much talking to the baby in the womb. Nor have I played him classical music, although I did play Saturday Night by Whigfield to him today, as obviously he will be very interested in learning about the days of my youth, in much the same way that I used to persistently ask my parents what life was like in the sixties, as if they spent the entire decade holed up in Carnaby Street with Twiggy and Mick Jagger, instead of going to school and getting pimples, like the ordinary teenagers that they were.
Anyway, I worry that my failure to teach Baby the joys of Mozart or provide him with scintillating conversation in the womb may have damaged him for life, in much the same way that I worry that if the whole birth thing takes an unexpected turn and I end up being wheeled in for a caesarean, or with those giant tong things between my legs (forceps-urgh) then the baby will be traumatised for the rest of his life after having such a terrifying start to life, as my hypnobirthing books warn.
It seems a bit presumptuous though to assume that a difficult birth means a lifetime of trauma, given that I've never met a single person who can remember theirs, regardless of how euphoric or awful it was. Mine, for the record, involved an emergency caesarean, and although I don't remember the "stress" that I was apparently suffering at the time, I do remember the glow of self-satisfaction I had when my mother told me that the first she saw of me I was all pink and cuddly and wrapped in swaddling bands, having been freshly laundered before before being presented to her, unlike all those natural-birth babies who first greet their parents as a bloody, screaming mess.
Anyway, I'm off to read some more information on How Not To Balls Up Your Baby's Life Forever. By the time this baby is actually born, I'll be terrified to do anything at all.
Thursday, 17 April 2014
When does the nesting instinct kick in?
Yet again I am engaged in the deadly habit of procrastination. Why is it that every time the holidays roll around I fool myself into thinking that if I do one productive thing per day-just one-then the entire day has been a success? Today's "productive task" consisted of emailing some photos that I had promised to a friend; a task which, even at 26 weeks pregnant and rapidly expanding, was hardly taxing. Well done me, I sent an email. Meanwhile the flat remains in the sort of state that would have even the stars (contestants? Victims? "Stars" scarcely seems accurate) of the Jeremy Kyle Show ringing social services.
In fact, several of the participants on today's show had the accusation levelled at them that they couldn't be good parents (mothers. It's always the mothers. No one ever chides the men for being poor homemakers. Not even Jeremy, who chides them for pretty much everything else) because their houses were "a tip."
Hmm. I have the shattered remains of a cardboard box lying on the floor next to the dishwasher which formerly housed a piece of furniture I had delivered in February. FEBRUARY. Well, chopping it up into little bits so that it fits into the recycling chute requires effort.
Apparently, according to one of my books on hypnobirthing, just before a woman gives birth she suddenly develops a "nesting instinct," and runs fretfully around the house, cleaning and prepping everything in sight for the arrival of the baby. I so wish this would happen to me. At the moment I can't even be bothered to change the sheets on the bed (requires effort) and have been running the tumble dryer on repeat all day under the pretext that the clothes in there are not quite dry and so the washing machine cannot yet be freed up for cleaning sheets. This is not because I don't want my sheets to be clean-everyone loves a clean sheet-but because I cannot bear the task of trying to stretch a fresh one over the bed, or worse, the horror of changing the duvet cover, the thought of which is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat. This is why I need a husband. I promise I will cook every meal he ever requires if he promises to change the bedclothes in perpetuity.
As my mother would say, in the verbal equivalent of shaking an accusatory finger at me, "You had better get this flat sorted out when the baby comes my girl."
In fact, several of the participants on today's show had the accusation levelled at them that they couldn't be good parents (mothers. It's always the mothers. No one ever chides the men for being poor homemakers. Not even Jeremy, who chides them for pretty much everything else) because their houses were "a tip."
Hmm. I have the shattered remains of a cardboard box lying on the floor next to the dishwasher which formerly housed a piece of furniture I had delivered in February. FEBRUARY. Well, chopping it up into little bits so that it fits into the recycling chute requires effort.
Apparently, according to one of my books on hypnobirthing, just before a woman gives birth she suddenly develops a "nesting instinct," and runs fretfully around the house, cleaning and prepping everything in sight for the arrival of the baby. I so wish this would happen to me. At the moment I can't even be bothered to change the sheets on the bed (requires effort) and have been running the tumble dryer on repeat all day under the pretext that the clothes in there are not quite dry and so the washing machine cannot yet be freed up for cleaning sheets. This is not because I don't want my sheets to be clean-everyone loves a clean sheet-but because I cannot bear the task of trying to stretch a fresh one over the bed, or worse, the horror of changing the duvet cover, the thought of which is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat. This is why I need a husband. I promise I will cook every meal he ever requires if he promises to change the bedclothes in perpetuity.
As my mother would say, in the verbal equivalent of shaking an accusatory finger at me, "You had better get this flat sorted out when the baby comes my girl."
Monday, 3 March 2014
Eagerly anticipating the birth of the Messiah
20 week scan tomorrow.
Obviously this is terrifying, and I will not go into the list of horrific ailments that could be detected at this point, all of which I have googled multiple times.
Anyway, my bump is continuing to grow at a somewhat alarming rate, and now I even have backache (hopefully this is not a sign of impending doom. Have googled that as well. I also read all the bits in What to Expect When You're Expecting which were marked "Do not read unless diagnosed with...THIS WILL ONLY SCARE YOU" in bold letters).
Basically, I am now an expert on:
Placenta praevia
Placenta accreta
Placental abruption
Cord prolapse (someone had this in Call the Midwife yesterday, and they had to have a caesarean. A caesarean! In Call the Midwife! Judging by that programme, in the 1950s usually it was three pushes and the baby's out so it must have been serious. I do hope it wasn't Miranda Hart doing the operation).
Pre-ecampsia
Eclampsia (this is what Lady Sybil died of in Downton Abbey. See, I'm an expert).
PRROM (this is my current Number One Thing to be Scared Of, having recently taken over from Incompetent Cervix, mainly because I discovered that it might be caused by having bleeding gums, which I often do at the moment).
HELLP syndrome (apparently this is an actual thing).
Anyway, at least the students at work are helping to play their part in ensuring a safe pregnancy by trying to minimise my stress in the classroom. For one Year 11 student this apparently means offering to give out sheets and carry unusually heavy objects, such as a tin of glue sticks, around the classroom for me, and for one particularly charming Year 9, it includes clearing a path for me in the corridor by yelling at fellow students "Out of the way! Pregnant lady coming through!"
Meanwhile, others are taking a more hands on approach, wanting to touch my bump or suggesting preposterous names for the baby (Nevaeh. It's Heaven backwards, see?)
Oh, and it looks like there might soon be a rumour going around that I am actually the Virgin Mary, and expecting the future Messiah, since a student ran into the detentions after school on Friday yelling "Did you know Miss is pregnant? But she HASN'T HAD ANY INTERCOURSE!"
Don't ask.
Obviously this is terrifying, and I will not go into the list of horrific ailments that could be detected at this point, all of which I have googled multiple times.
Anyway, my bump is continuing to grow at a somewhat alarming rate, and now I even have backache (hopefully this is not a sign of impending doom. Have googled that as well. I also read all the bits in What to Expect When You're Expecting which were marked "Do not read unless diagnosed with...THIS WILL ONLY SCARE YOU" in bold letters).
Basically, I am now an expert on:
Placenta praevia
Placenta accreta
Placental abruption
Cord prolapse (someone had this in Call the Midwife yesterday, and they had to have a caesarean. A caesarean! In Call the Midwife! Judging by that programme, in the 1950s usually it was three pushes and the baby's out so it must have been serious. I do hope it wasn't Miranda Hart doing the operation).
Pre-ecampsia
Eclampsia (this is what Lady Sybil died of in Downton Abbey. See, I'm an expert).
PRROM (this is my current Number One Thing to be Scared Of, having recently taken over from Incompetent Cervix, mainly because I discovered that it might be caused by having bleeding gums, which I often do at the moment).
HELLP syndrome (apparently this is an actual thing).
Anyway, at least the students at work are helping to play their part in ensuring a safe pregnancy by trying to minimise my stress in the classroom. For one Year 11 student this apparently means offering to give out sheets and carry unusually heavy objects, such as a tin of glue sticks, around the classroom for me, and for one particularly charming Year 9, it includes clearing a path for me in the corridor by yelling at fellow students "Out of the way! Pregnant lady coming through!"
Meanwhile, others are taking a more hands on approach, wanting to touch my bump or suggesting preposterous names for the baby (Nevaeh. It's Heaven backwards, see?)
Oh, and it looks like there might soon be a rumour going around that I am actually the Virgin Mary, and expecting the future Messiah, since a student ran into the detentions after school on Friday yelling "Did you know Miss is pregnant? But she HASN'T HAD ANY INTERCOURSE!"
Don't ask.
Monday, 10 February 2014
"But what would happen, Miss, if the baby had a small head and huge shoulders, and it got stuck?"
I think I can now confirm (sort of. Almost. I mean, I think this is what I'm feeling) that the Wee One is moving around in there. Like, officially. In fact, I'm pretty sure s/he just punched me three times in the last few seconds. It is SO WEIRD!
And now the cat is out of the bag. For a start, my mother has now given my more conservative relatives the happy news (thankfully, they were so excited about the prospect of knitting tiny clothes for the Wee One that they have so far overlooked the whole sperm donor scenario). And secondly, some of the more observant of my students have started to notice my enormous bloated midsection, leading one to claim today that she had "heard from someone" that I was pregnant.
I was a aghast that one of the twenty-odd people at work to whom I had entrusted my confidence would blurt it out to a sixteen year old, but it turned out that this was in fact a ruse on the part of said sixteen year old to get me to admit the truth, which she had suspected upon observation of my "rounded" figure.
Ladies and gentlemen, not only have I been conned into admitting the truth by a wily Year 11, but I am also now officially "round." As in, that is my actual shape.
I have to admit I'm kind of enjoying looking like a heifer (or to use the Daily Mail term, "flaunting my pregnancy curves") and at least the fact that everyone now knows means I no longer have to hide under a huge cardigan, or have people think I'm a work-shy glutton when I run off to the canteen for the fourth time that morning.
Anyway, the questions the Year 11s asked were enlightening, if nothing else. I had been terrified they would start quizzing me about whether I was married, but instead they were more interested in what the baby's birthday would be, with one young 'un musing "Miss, your baby will be really lucky!" I beamed with pride, naturally thinking this was because it had the wondrous me as a mother, and then the boy piped up "Its birthday will be in July. That is SO the best time for a birthday!"
I agreed wholeheartedly, adding that my birthday was in July too, then a girl came out with "But Miss, what would you do if the baby was born on YOUR BIRTHDAY????"
Puzzled, I answered probably nothing, before realising that sharing my birthday with a mewling tot would mean that I would never again have an opportunity to have a quiet drink with friends in a restaurant of my own choosing, and would instead have to put up with children's parties full of squawking brats demanding party bags every year on MY OWN BIRTHDAY. The only day when everyone joins in celebration, homage and general worship of me. Perhaps the Year 11s were right to point out this glaring example of poor timing on my part.
Then one of the boys decided to lower the tone by asking "what would happen if the baby had a really small head and huge shoulders, and it got stuck." At that point I decided it was definitely time to change the subject.
And now the cat is out of the bag. For a start, my mother has now given my more conservative relatives the happy news (thankfully, they were so excited about the prospect of knitting tiny clothes for the Wee One that they have so far overlooked the whole sperm donor scenario). And secondly, some of the more observant of my students have started to notice my enormous bloated midsection, leading one to claim today that she had "heard from someone" that I was pregnant.
I was a aghast that one of the twenty-odd people at work to whom I had entrusted my confidence would blurt it out to a sixteen year old, but it turned out that this was in fact a ruse on the part of said sixteen year old to get me to admit the truth, which she had suspected upon observation of my "rounded" figure.
Ladies and gentlemen, not only have I been conned into admitting the truth by a wily Year 11, but I am also now officially "round." As in, that is my actual shape.
I have to admit I'm kind of enjoying looking like a heifer (or to use the Daily Mail term, "flaunting my pregnancy curves") and at least the fact that everyone now knows means I no longer have to hide under a huge cardigan, or have people think I'm a work-shy glutton when I run off to the canteen for the fourth time that morning.
Anyway, the questions the Year 11s asked were enlightening, if nothing else. I had been terrified they would start quizzing me about whether I was married, but instead they were more interested in what the baby's birthday would be, with one young 'un musing "Miss, your baby will be really lucky!" I beamed with pride, naturally thinking this was because it had the wondrous me as a mother, and then the boy piped up "Its birthday will be in July. That is SO the best time for a birthday!"
I agreed wholeheartedly, adding that my birthday was in July too, then a girl came out with "But Miss, what would you do if the baby was born on YOUR BIRTHDAY????"
Puzzled, I answered probably nothing, before realising that sharing my birthday with a mewling tot would mean that I would never again have an opportunity to have a quiet drink with friends in a restaurant of my own choosing, and would instead have to put up with children's parties full of squawking brats demanding party bags every year on MY OWN BIRTHDAY. The only day when everyone joins in celebration, homage and general worship of me. Perhaps the Year 11s were right to point out this glaring example of poor timing on my part.
Then one of the boys decided to lower the tone by asking "what would happen if the baby had a really small head and huge shoulders, and it got stuck." At that point I decided it was definitely time to change the subject.
Sunday, 2 February 2014
First Foray into Topshop Maternity Ends in Disaster at Shocking Realisation that Big Clothes are Boring
Urgghhh.
I have quite possibly the World's Worst Cold.
Literally, it is so bad that on Friday I even had to take a day off work. With a cold. It's the sort of cold that one normally only gets on holiday, at some point towards the end, after ten whole days and nights of drinking and carousing and no sleep. Only this time, there has been no carousing and certainly no drinking. Even the lychee juice in the fridge is eyeing me threateningly with its questionable morals (fruit juice is the enemy now, did you hear? One glass contains as much sugar as twelve Krispy Kremes. Or something).
Anyway, the deadly cold shows no signs of abating, and all I can do is slather on the Vicks and hope for the best.
Yesterday I decided to brave Topshop Maternity, as I am looking a bit fat now, at least in the afternoons (for some reason, I look thin in the mornings, but by four O clock I look about six months gone) and I don't want insolent children at work asking me if I'm pregnant. I therefore decided it was time I purchased something slightly looser than the usual obligatory pencil skirt to wear to work, lest I am papped by the Daily Mail and accused of "flaunting my pregnancy curves." The great thing about Topshop Maternity is that as the average age of the whippersnappers in Toppers is about fifteen, the Maternity section was completely empty. The not-so-good thing is that unlike the rest of Toppers, it does not appear to sell crop tops, jumpers made out of clingfilm or pieces of pink fluff, all of which I had hoped to see reinvented for the maternity market in an ingenious bump-disguising style. In the end, after discovering that it consisted entirely of loose-fitting but boring dresses and pencil skirts with a slightly enlarged bump-accomodating section at the front, I moved on to the "normal" sections, where I purchased a huge candy-pink tent-like creation to wear to work. Nobody will suspect anything when I turn up in that. Except that I might possibly have gone mental.
That is, if I am well enough to return to work tomorrow.
I have quite possibly the World's Worst Cold.
Literally, it is so bad that on Friday I even had to take a day off work. With a cold. It's the sort of cold that one normally only gets on holiday, at some point towards the end, after ten whole days and nights of drinking and carousing and no sleep. Only this time, there has been no carousing and certainly no drinking. Even the lychee juice in the fridge is eyeing me threateningly with its questionable morals (fruit juice is the enemy now, did you hear? One glass contains as much sugar as twelve Krispy Kremes. Or something).
Anyway, the deadly cold shows no signs of abating, and all I can do is slather on the Vicks and hope for the best.
Yesterday I decided to brave Topshop Maternity, as I am looking a bit fat now, at least in the afternoons (for some reason, I look thin in the mornings, but by four O clock I look about six months gone) and I don't want insolent children at work asking me if I'm pregnant. I therefore decided it was time I purchased something slightly looser than the usual obligatory pencil skirt to wear to work, lest I am papped by the Daily Mail and accused of "flaunting my pregnancy curves." The great thing about Topshop Maternity is that as the average age of the whippersnappers in Toppers is about fifteen, the Maternity section was completely empty. The not-so-good thing is that unlike the rest of Toppers, it does not appear to sell crop tops, jumpers made out of clingfilm or pieces of pink fluff, all of which I had hoped to see reinvented for the maternity market in an ingenious bump-disguising style. In the end, after discovering that it consisted entirely of loose-fitting but boring dresses and pencil skirts with a slightly enlarged bump-accomodating section at the front, I moved on to the "normal" sections, where I purchased a huge candy-pink tent-like creation to wear to work. Nobody will suspect anything when I turn up in that. Except that I might possibly have gone mental.
That is, if I am well enough to return to work tomorrow.
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
Cruel and Unusual Symptoms of Pregnancy
I'm back! Already! After just one day!
Obviously this means that one of my hundreds of New Year's Resolutions is to write more often.
The other main one is to clean the flat but I still haven't done that. I'm using morning sickness as an excuse, especially since I threw up three times this morning and was feeling too ropey even to go to Topshop, so ended staying in all day, apart from one ill-fated trip to Asda, which turned out to be closed.
Along with the sickness, this morning I noticed a new and alarming Disgusting Pregnancy Symptom.
I have developed weird brown spots on my nipples.
AAAAAARRRRGHHHH!!!!!
Obviously this required instant googling to check that it wasn't breast cancer. Kylie wasn't much older than me when she had breast cancer was she? How old was she? God I should know this, as a proud owner of the Kylie Annual 1988.
Also, whatever happened to annuals? Do the youngsters still get them for Christmas every year? Is there, in fact, such a thing as the One Direction Annual 2014, for example? I'm going back on the Google to check.
There is, look!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/One-Direction-Official-Annual-Annuals/dp/0007521006
My faith in humanity is restored.
Oh God now I have "One Direction Annual 2014" stored in the saved searches on my computer. Does this make me a suspected peodophile? The spelling of that last word there might be wrong, but I am not checking that on the Google. Definitely not.
Anyway, it's 7.30pm now so I might go to bed soon. There's nothing on TV to keep me awake, as with it being New Year's Day and all, all the TV presenters and other people involved in putting programmes on the television have got the day off, so all they are showing is films. Old films I've seen a million times, like the Karate Kid and Big, but not, it would seem, Brilliant Old Films that one would welcome watching again for the millionth time, like Grease 2 or Dirty Dancing. The other day I thought I had stumbed across Short Circuit but it turned out to be a disappointing modern lookalike called Wall E. When the baby is born, I will make sure it watches all the old classics. Especially Grease 2. Everyone needs a good strong feminist message like "I ain't nobody's trophy."
Anyway, now I am totally off the point. I was supposed to be talking about the brown patches on my areolas.
What, nobody wants to hear about that? Well, I'll be off then.
Obviously this means that one of my hundreds of New Year's Resolutions is to write more often.
The other main one is to clean the flat but I still haven't done that. I'm using morning sickness as an excuse, especially since I threw up three times this morning and was feeling too ropey even to go to Topshop, so ended staying in all day, apart from one ill-fated trip to Asda, which turned out to be closed.
Along with the sickness, this morning I noticed a new and alarming Disgusting Pregnancy Symptom.
I have developed weird brown spots on my nipples.
AAAAAARRRRGHHHH!!!!!
Obviously this required instant googling to check that it wasn't breast cancer. Kylie wasn't much older than me when she had breast cancer was she? How old was she? God I should know this, as a proud owner of the Kylie Annual 1988.
Also, whatever happened to annuals? Do the youngsters still get them for Christmas every year? Is there, in fact, such a thing as the One Direction Annual 2014, for example? I'm going back on the Google to check.
There is, look!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/One-Direction-Official-Annual-Annuals/dp/0007521006
My faith in humanity is restored.
Oh God now I have "One Direction Annual 2014" stored in the saved searches on my computer. Does this make me a suspected peodophile? The spelling of that last word there might be wrong, but I am not checking that on the Google. Definitely not.
Anyway, it's 7.30pm now so I might go to bed soon. There's nothing on TV to keep me awake, as with it being New Year's Day and all, all the TV presenters and other people involved in putting programmes on the television have got the day off, so all they are showing is films. Old films I've seen a million times, like the Karate Kid and Big, but not, it would seem, Brilliant Old Films that one would welcome watching again for the millionth time, like Grease 2 or Dirty Dancing. The other day I thought I had stumbed across Short Circuit but it turned out to be a disappointing modern lookalike called Wall E. When the baby is born, I will make sure it watches all the old classics. Especially Grease 2. Everyone needs a good strong feminist message like "I ain't nobody's trophy."
Anyway, now I am totally off the point. I was supposed to be talking about the brown patches on my areolas.
What, nobody wants to hear about that? Well, I'll be off then.
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
The Anti-Cravings
I have not written on here for ages.
This is because a) I am too scared in case everything goes wrong and
b) I have been very lazy (blame the pregnancy tiredness).
Anyway, I am now 11 weeks and still running to the loo every five minutes to check that Blastocyst (who has by now hopefully graduated to the status of "Foetus") has not fallen out because I have killed it with my negative thinking, or simply because the whole situation is just too good to be actually true.
On the plus side, I am feeling very queasy and tired, and have gone off basically all food (these are obviously pluses, as presumably they mean Foetus is still in there and making its presence known). So much for pregnancy cravings, I have had zero cravings, and about twenty million aversions including all of the following:
Coffee (at least this saves me worrying about killing Foetus with caffeine)
Tea (TEA. I ask you to take a deep breath and really think about that one for a minute, just to let the gravity of the situation sink in)
Pretty much anything fried, especially eggs
Chips (CHIPS) or any kind of fried potato
Curry (WHY????? This just goes from bad to worse)
Anything from the canteen at work
Patak's Lime Pickle (O THE CRUELTY!)
So basically all I can now eat is pasta, which I have to scoff at regular intervals as not eating also makes me feel sick. I even threw up a couple of innocent After Eight mints this morning.
On the plus side, for the first time in my entire life I am happy to be staying in on New Year's Eve, feeling completely smug about it, and going to bed at 9pm. May this be the start of many happy teetotal nights in to come.
This is because a) I am too scared in case everything goes wrong and
b) I have been very lazy (blame the pregnancy tiredness).
Anyway, I am now 11 weeks and still running to the loo every five minutes to check that Blastocyst (who has by now hopefully graduated to the status of "Foetus") has not fallen out because I have killed it with my negative thinking, or simply because the whole situation is just too good to be actually true.
On the plus side, I am feeling very queasy and tired, and have gone off basically all food (these are obviously pluses, as presumably they mean Foetus is still in there and making its presence known). So much for pregnancy cravings, I have had zero cravings, and about twenty million aversions including all of the following:
Coffee (at least this saves me worrying about killing Foetus with caffeine)
Tea (TEA. I ask you to take a deep breath and really think about that one for a minute, just to let the gravity of the situation sink in)
Pretty much anything fried, especially eggs
Chips (CHIPS) or any kind of fried potato
Curry (WHY????? This just goes from bad to worse)
Anything from the canteen at work
Patak's Lime Pickle (O THE CRUELTY!)
So basically all I can now eat is pasta, which I have to scoff at regular intervals as not eating also makes me feel sick. I even threw up a couple of innocent After Eight mints this morning.
On the plus side, for the first time in my entire life I am happy to be staying in on New Year's Eve, feeling completely smug about it, and going to bed at 9pm. May this be the start of many happy teetotal nights in to come.
Sunday, 10 November 2013
Knicker Watch Officially Starts Here
Today is a momentous day. One that will go down in the history books. Or at least the annals of my life.
I hope.
Yes, today is the day I got a faint line on a cheap pregnancy test from Wilkinson's. And a day before Official Test Date at that.
I celebrated in hedonistic style, dancing (walking. Didn't want to dislodge the blastocyst) around the room for a good hour, mostly to I Need a Hero by Bonnie Tyler and a selection of the songs from Grease 2. Then off to Pret for a celebratory breakfast of superfood salad and peppermint tea (I do hope peppermint tea is safe for blastocysts).
I am a bit scared, of course. Correction: I am TERRIFIED. Have to keep resisting the urge to stand on balcony with a megaphone bellowing the news to the whole of London whilst displaying the urine-soaked pregnancy test triumphantly as though it were the FA Cup as, after all, it may be (lowers voice to a whisper in case Blastocyst hears and starts getting ideas) a chemical pregnancy.
I am also a bit worried about this whole "positive thinking/visualisation" thing. I mean, if you can make your womb lining grow by visualising it as a big fluffy duvet, as my acupuncturist suggested that you could, does this mean that you can also make your embryo die by imagining your period starting and ruining the whole thing? If this is the case then Little Blastocyst is in big trouble, because I am visualising blood every time I go within a mile of a toilet, and since one is never more than one mile from a toilet unless travelling through remote desert lands on the back of a camel, this is quite clearly all the time.
And with that, I am off to the toilet. Just checking, of course.
I hope.
Yes, today is the day I got a faint line on a cheap pregnancy test from Wilkinson's. And a day before Official Test Date at that.
I celebrated in hedonistic style, dancing (walking. Didn't want to dislodge the blastocyst) around the room for a good hour, mostly to I Need a Hero by Bonnie Tyler and a selection of the songs from Grease 2. Then off to Pret for a celebratory breakfast of superfood salad and peppermint tea (I do hope peppermint tea is safe for blastocysts).
I am a bit scared, of course. Correction: I am TERRIFIED. Have to keep resisting the urge to stand on balcony with a megaphone bellowing the news to the whole of London whilst displaying the urine-soaked pregnancy test triumphantly as though it were the FA Cup as, after all, it may be (lowers voice to a whisper in case Blastocyst hears and starts getting ideas) a chemical pregnancy.
I am also a bit worried about this whole "positive thinking/visualisation" thing. I mean, if you can make your womb lining grow by visualising it as a big fluffy duvet, as my acupuncturist suggested that you could, does this mean that you can also make your embryo die by imagining your period starting and ruining the whole thing? If this is the case then Little Blastocyst is in big trouble, because I am visualising blood every time I go within a mile of a toilet, and since one is never more than one mile from a toilet unless travelling through remote desert lands on the back of a camel, this is quite clearly all the time.
And with that, I am off to the toilet. Just checking, of course.
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