The other evening I let the microbe loose for a run about in the park with his little nursery pal, Flynn. At some point Flynn’s dad and I exchanged a brief eyebrow-raise as we noticed that our ‘charming boys’ appeared to be having a lot of fun dancing about while waving ill-gotten daffodils around. At that precise moment, as if on cue, the boybot put his daffodil in his back pocket.
I’m saying nothing. *cough* daddy’s boy *cough*
I can’t believe it’s Thursday already. My first week of maternity leave has got off to an inauspicious start and I’ve achieved precisely nothing. I’m mostly blaming a tummy bug that left me feeling rough as hell for the first few days. That and burning the candle at both ends, with insomnia sandwiched in the middle. It’s a level of tiredness unknown.
Suffice to say I’ve not been endeavouring to get the boy into nursery by 8am. In daddy’s absence we’ve been doing pretty well to manage 9am, as I have to factor in an hour of wandering about like a dazed and confused zombie at the start of each day. As I wandered home on Tuesday morning I got as far as the park at the end of our road and seriously considered lying down on the grass and going to sleep for an hour, rather than trekking the remaining 2 minutes to my front door. (The only thing that stopped me was the fear that a dog might have weed on it.)
So I went home and zonked out instantly on the sofa for 2 hours. God – the LUXURY of it!
A key problem with being in sole charge of the Microbe right now is the pressing desire to nap while on duty. I’m sure he’s old enough at this point to be able to play safely in the room beside me while I doze… but there’s no accounting for what fresh hell I will wake up to.
The other weekend, seeing him quietly engrossed in a giant book of animal habitat stickers, I took the opportunity to close my eyes and yawned at him to be a good boy while mummy had a nap… an hour later I opened them to a scene of blitz-like devastation.
Apparently the nano-second my eyes were closed he’d decided that it would be a great idea to rampage through the flat and construct a shrine to Chaos across our entire living room floor. A giant, sliding mountain made up of every single toy, book, sticker sheet, craft item and bit of junk that he could find. He’d even gone so far as to pull out one of the sofas and retrieve all sorts of forgotten tat from behind it. It was one of those moments where you wonder whether to cry or take a photo. In the end I reasoned that nobody needs to see that… and we spent the next hour or two putting everything back where it belonged.
Roll on to this week and he’s been up to more ill-deeds. For reasons best known to himself, he’s purloined a clip-on, battery-operated reading lamp from my bed-head and is unable to tell me what he’s done with it. I have no idea whether he genuinely can’t remember or has put it somewhere that he doesn’t want to admit to. Either way I can’t get it out of him and neither can I find the damn thing anywhere…
In other news, someone needs to tie my hands behind my back and make me step away from my laptop. The combination of being off work and feeling too rough to move has resulted in a level of online shopping that simply has to stop. Dear brain: the Microbe does not need any more stripey t-shirts, you do not need any more maternity bras and Thing 2 has enough cotton stuff to defile for at least the first month. Got it?
Her new crib has arrived today in flat pack form – several weeks ahead of its estimated delivery date. Now I’m itching to assemble it. I can barely express how much I love doing flat packs. But I’m trying hard to resist until nearer the time as it’ll only be in the way.
Speaking of ‘in the way’… people’s reactions to me these days seem to be polarised between “Gosh – only a month left? You’re still tiny!” and “Good god, you’re enormous – are you sure you’re not ready to pop now?”
The difference seems to be based entirely upon whether they’re looking at me from the front or the side. As with James, this bump is entirely front-facing. Hence I seem to be one of those women who doesn’t look pregnant at all from behind – and is sometimes barely noticeable from the front – but resembles a balloon when viewed side-on.
These poor attempts at bump selfies are not the greatest illustration but it’s the best I can do right now…
NB: how and why did I choose to survive the last two decades without leggings? They have got to be the comfiest garment known to man and I’m not sure I’ll ever give them up again now, preg or not.
I’m also (to the abhorrence of my Ugg-hating friends) back in my fuggs on a daily basis. Springtime or not, nothing is kinder to my puffy feet right now. It’s either that or my orthopaedic-looking (but supremely comfortable) Fly London wedge sandals that make me look like a 65 year-old Greenham common protester. Choices, eh?