My Wild Night of Smoking and Drinking

Apparently Katie Price is pregnant with her fifth child.

Now despite my concern at the alarming prospect that the world may be being single-handedly repopulated by Katie Price (possibly with help from Kerry Katona), there is some grounds for hope here.  After all, Katie Price is older than me.  And at my age, anyone older than me being pregnant is grounds for a celebration.  I am not over the hill.  I am not the Oldest Mother-to-be in The World.  Maybe I even have time to marry someone and have another child after this one, despite the ever-lengthening odds.  There is hope.

In other news, as I may or may not have already said, I am now in the third trimester, which is obviously brilliant.  I never thought I would get this far, and Little One is poking me from the inside pretty much constantly, which is also brilliant.

Went to my second hypnobirthing class yesterday, and practised some deepening, relaxation, visualisation and affirmation techniques.  I'm not sure how helpful either of the latter two in particular are likely to be, but I have stuck some visualisation pictures up in my bedroom-one of an opening flower that is supposed to represent the cervix and vagina opening to let the baby out; and the other is a drawing of a baby in the womb, in the correct position for birth.  Hopefully visualising positive things works better that the many times I have visualised negative things and they have not happened, such as being on a plane plunging into the sea from a great height; or being attacked and robbed of my house keys on the way home when desperate for the toilet (number twos).  Not that I'm disappointed that neither of those things have so far come to pass, obviously.

As for the affirmations, all I can say is that I have to believe that chanting "I am ready to birth my baby. My body is designed perfectly to birth my baby in the easiest way possible" is going to be useful when the time comes, otherwise the whole thing is a waste of three hundred quid that could have been spent buying a Michael Kors tote to use as a changing bag.

Just put the TV on.  First thing that came on was snooker.  Snooker.  On a Sunday night.  This is an outrage.  Why isn't Downton Abbey on?  Who watches snooker anyway?

Anyway, last night I had a wild night of smoking and drinking.  It was just like the old days.  Well, OK I didn't really smoke even in the old days, but last night I was sat perilously close to a barbecue, and there was smoke coming off it, which I'm not sure was great for the baby, as I had to occasionally cough and bat the smoke away with an extremely ineffective hand flourish.  And also I wasn't really drinking (unlike the old days), but I did have an enormous wine glass filled with fantastically wine-resembling soft drink Shloer, which I believe prompted more than a few disapproving glances.  I can't wait to drink again.  I wish I was drinking now.  Although obviously I also wish that drinking was completely safe and had no detrimental effect on babies or their mothers.  I suppose that's a bit like saying I wish no bad stuff ever happened, ever, though.

Revelation: Having a Hangover is Basically Just Being Really, Really Tired

So apparently I should be relaxing and not overdoing it now that I am pregnant.

I also shouldn't be crossing my legs, as one person usefully reminded me, as I may "crush the baby."

I now feel infinitely guilty about all the times I have crossed my legs.

Also I must look massive, as at a friend's wedding on Friday, someone looked at me and asked "is there a midwife in the building?"  I should hope I don't need one at this stage, or we're in for a very long stay in the neonatal unit at best.

Anyway, at the aforementioned wedding I was delighted that I managed to stay up until 1am two nights in a row, AND dance to a great many tunes, feeling almost normal.  Until, that is, I went to bed and had to get up again within half an hour to be violently sick.

This is it, I thought.  I've got food poisoning.  I've got listeria.  OH MY GOD THE BABY IS GOING TO DIE!  Fortunately I was only sick the once, which I quickly decided ruled out food poisoning.  So the moral of the story is, a) don't stay up late and b) don't act as if you are not six months pregnant: i.e. by jumping up and down repeatedly and punching the air to the strains of Set You Free by N-Trance (what a tune.  It just doesn't age, that one).  If there's one thing I've learned from being pregnant, it's that sometimes you don't need to drink to develop the signs of a hangover, which I'm pretty sure I had the next day, although mercifully minus The Fear that comes upon realisation that you probably did something-or a great many things-that were bad the previous night.

Anyway, speaking of tiredness, it's now almost 9.15pm so definitely past my bedtime.

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.

Stop Press: Wholesome New Me Turns Down Night Out in Walkabout

Yet again it is 9.30pm on a Saturday night and I am sprawled on the sofa at home, alone, looking up Wikipedia entries on little-known European royals of the eighteenth century through my ovulatory phase rather than-as we would all doubtless be doing-having passionate baby-making sex with someone really, really hot.

Desperate text messages have been sent enquiring whether either of the two people who might potentially want to have sex with me and live just about close enough to pop over are free tonight.  No messages have been received, although I did receive word from one "potential" that he was playing football in Surrey today and wouldn't be back until "late."

The predictive text managed to alter my return message to such an extent that it made it look as though I was also going to Surrey, presumably to stalk him while he played football, simply by changing the inoffensive word "well" to the more inclusive "we'll" (as in "we'll go to Surrey and play football.")  It looked as though I was planning on joining him and trying out my skills as a centre-forward.  Needless to say, he has not responded.

At least I have some potential baby-making to look forward to next month, given that I have now officially purchased some sperm.

I'm not sure which was more painful, having to ring up the clinic (from work) and announce within earshot of my startled co-workers "I'm just calling to pay for some SPERM," or handing over eight hundred pounds for the privilege.

I'm telling you, this thing better bloody well work.  Half the women on the Fertility Friends website (don't ask) seem to have their cycles cancelled before they even start, what with underresponding to the medication, overresponding and all manner of obstacles in between.  Why is life never simple? Why can't I just be Kim Kardashian?  Or Kate Middleton?  I've given up alcohol and everything, for Christ's sake.  I even turned down a trip to Walkabout in Shepherd's Bush last night I was so full of my wholesome and discerning new self.  After all, Kate would never be seen in a Walkabout.  Instead I bit the bullet, went home after one hot chocolate and cooked a healthy dinner and tried to download Call the Midwife on Blinkbox (practising.  Or at least I would have been, if it weren't for the fact that after 30 minutes of trying to punch in my card details with the TV remote, the damn thing wouldn't recognise my address).

The highlight of tonight ended up buying a dress on Asos that I hope will make me look like Rihanna.

Bring on next month and its attendant drama.