Good evening, dear blog. I must say it seems like eons since I was feeling all rosy-eyed and chirpy and full of the joys of second-trimester up the duffage. Now I just feel about 100 years old…
I’m nowhere near as sprightly as I was when James was in here. Mostly I’m just shuffling about breathlessly and relying on Haribo, chocolate, sugary fruit juice and diet coke to make it through the days. Pregnancy gives me a hellishly sweet tooth – and every afternoon I reach a crash point at work when I just want to lay my head down on my desk and sleep for 30 minutes. But – alas – you can’t get away with that in an open plan office,
On desperate days I’ve resorted to zonking out for half an hour in a corner of our Senior Common Room, amid a load of anonymous postgraduate students, in the hope that nobody will recognise me and prod me awake to ask if I’m ok. (A pregnant colleague has since informed me that my workplace actually has a special maternity room with a comfy chair that I had no idea about. Hooray for our HR department!)
Apparently I’m also a big, old, nesting cliche. Having spent the last 2 weekends sorting out the storage under our bed and reorganising the Microbe’s wardrobe, I was perturbed to receive one of those weekly ‘what to expect’ emails this week with the sentence “Reorganising the closets, alphabetising the spice rack, and thwarting dust-bunny breeding efforts under the bed?” Damn them. I am a human being, not a number… (I think even G might be feeling the nesting urge, because he’s started steam-cleaning every surface in sight.)
In girlbot news – I had another courtesy scan last week and it seems that all is well and she still has everything in the right place. According to my pregnancy iPhone app she is currently around the size of a small cabbage and will treble in size over the next 10 weeks. Joyous…
The more I contemplate the birth, the more I find myself hoping that the hospital might just let me to skip straight to the c-section this time around, rather than re-living the 3-day fiasco of James’s’ appearance.
I had a wonderfully naive, hippy birth plan for James involving a natural birthing suite and a water bath. Ha! Who was I kidding? That little bugger had no intention of making an appearance without every bit of medical intervention known to man.
Even more amusingly, I came across my old self-hypnosis CD the other week that I bought in order to prepare me for labour. I listened to this religiously in my final month with James but never managed to stay awake beyond the first ten minutes. As a relaxation CD it was second to none. The moment the soothing voice started counting down and telling me to relax I was gone. (Apparently this is not a problem, as the voice informs us that all of the information will go in subconsciously while we snore in a chair.)
Anyway, I listened to this CD again last week and, by some miracle, managed to stay awake for the whole thing. As a result I learned the following facts about my impending birth experience…
1. Apparently I can ‘switch off’ the pain at any time by mentally envisaging myself turning down a dial every time it gets too much. Excellent news.
2. I will “enjoy” my contractions …and at some point will “open up like a flower”. Hooray!
3. (This is the best bit). At the end of my enjoyable contractions, the baby will “glide” out of my vagina.
GLIDE!!! She seriously says “glide”. I hereby swear that I will pay this hypnosis lady £1000 on the spot if she can find me a single female willing to use the word “glide” when describing her baby’s arrival into the world.
As for the girlbot, I’m feeling quite relieved that she’s still got two months to go in there. I just wish that she’d refrain from frolicking about on my bladder all day and night. It’s bad enough feeling like you need the loo all day long but it goes into overdrive when you add a cough and a cold into the mix. I might as well have set up home in the bathroom for the last 2 weeks. (Also I can only assume that ‘pregnancy flu’ must be related to ‘man flu’ because I’ve never before felt so wiped out by a cold. ’tis pathetic, I tell you!)
In good news of the week, I’m relieved to report that I do not have pregnancy diabetes. This wouldn’t even have occurred to me if I hadn’t had a dubious result on my first glucose test. I had to go in for more stabbings and lucozade yesterday to confirm it either way and apparently all is fine after all so I shall stop worrying about that now.
In Microbe news, he is full of beans and the joys of life and remains an overexcited little boybot.
Also, it seems that the mystery of the regressive wee-wee accidents has been solved, with some degree of triumph, by one of his nursery teachers. The premise to this story is twofold:
1. Each of the children at nursery has a bag hanging on their peg which contains spare ‘accident’ clothes and only comes home for replenishment if/when an accident has occurred.
2. The Microbe has form when it comes to pocket-smuggling tiny animal contraband in and out of nursery, despite being well aware of the rule on not bringing your own toys in.
So – the teacher in question, upon finding James’s pockets full of contraband on a semi-regular basis, has taken to confiscating any rogue animals that don’t belong at nursery and putting them in his peg bag. The boybot’s reaction to this, having cottoned on to the fact that his peg bag only comes home on days when he has an accident, has been to have deliberate accidents on those days, thus ensuring that he can stealthily retrieve the confiscated toys at home when nobody’s looking without having to fess up to daddy that he’d smuggled them in.
This system was going very well for him up to the part in which he outed himself by suggesting, mid-confiscation, that he might need to “have an accident” that afternoon in order to get the toys back in time for bedtime. Suffice to say he’s had talkings to and his pockets are now being checked with extra rigour every morning before leaving the house (yesterday Thumper – today Simba).
If he had his way, tomorrow’s contraband would be a toy narwhal. Apparently he dreamed that he had one and was sorely disappointed to wake up and find that it wasn’t true. (I know this because he woke me up around 5:30 am to share his dismay). Now he’s talking about writing to Father Christmas, who was apparently rather remiss not to have included a narwhal in his stocking. *seriously… kids of today*.
In food news, I think a growth spurt may be occurring because the boy has been uncharacteristically ravenous all week. I just wish he’d stash some of those extra calories on his waist. After doing a massive cull on his wardrobe I made the stupid error of bulk-buying a load of new jeans and trousers for him online, all with stretchy ribbed waists in age 3-4, from George and M&S. Alas every single pair hangs baggily off his hips and shows off his pants, making him look like a teenage hoodie.
Do we really live in a nation of hugely chunky boys or is the microbe a freakish string bean? I swear if he was chunky enough to wear those trousers on zero stretch, I’d be unable to lift him. I just need to remember NEVER again to buy trousers for him online unless they have that button-elastic thing on the inside that lets you adjust them.
In prep for Thing 2 turning up, Daddy and Jimmy have been having lots of bonding fun, with swimming and board games and phonics and so on. It’s v sweet how much the boybot looks forward to doing things with daddy these days. Here he is wearing daddy’s glasses…
Last, but not least, we had World Book Day and The Microbe went as Fantastic Mr Fox.
For some reason these pictures (especially the last one) remind me of his cousin Henry, back when he was a wee microbe. This surprised me at the time but then G’s sister posted a pic of a young G on facebook in which he looks exactly like Henry, so I suppose it’s not that unlikely a resemblance after all…
Well that’s probably enough of a ramblathon so I shall go away until I can think of some more pointless things to say.