Thursday, 19 March 2015

37 Weeks' Pregnant - One Classy Pregnant Lady in Need of Sledge

Good Morning / Evening and welcome to yet another episode of 'Whale Watch'.

This week we are in our new house - and I am the size of a house. The baby is apparently the size of a 'Crenshaw Melon' according to my baby app - which I think may be a made up fruit, because there simply aren't any fruits left that are big enough. I am 25 days from my due date and outside my window snow is falling. For breakfast I ate a bowl of Baked Beans and Turkey Drummers. Yes - for breakfast! What? And here's a bit of insider information for you. If I now eat my food from a tray on my lap on the sofa, I can't get the tray too close to me because of my large bump barrier. This results in all the sauce and crumbs falling onto my bump. And I have not changed my top in two days. I write to you, in the top, decorated in remnants of chilli pasta sauce, baked beans juice and margarine.

On Wednesday I had my fortnightly appointment with my midwife - who was uncharacteristically chipper! After telling her I was worried about my stomach as it felt rock hard she confirmed that this was 'Braxton Hicks'. Which was very exciting. She let me listen to the baby's heartbeat, which is always a relief and a surprise that there is another little heart in there and not just gas and breaded chicken products.

Yesterday the buggy arrived! I decided it couldn't be too difficult to put together, and two hours later, after some tears and two angry phone-calls to Mother -  it was up!

As I was in an active mood I decided to get some other little bits done. Perhaps just tidy the kitchen I thought - I will only do a bit! By the time my partner came home I had

  • Assembled a large dining room table 
  • Assembled a double bed frame
  • Moved a double mattress
  • Made up a double bed 
  • Moved 4 chests of drawers 
  • Done 2 sets of laundry 
  • Washed up the dishes
  • Cleaned the bathroom 
  • Bleached the toilet 
  • Cleaned the kitchen 
  • Unpacked and arranged all of the nursery purchases 
  • and installed cable TV upstairs 

and when he came through the door, as I sat on the sofa unable to move my head to the left or move my arm up to wave, I expected a fan fare, an award, some sort of plaque or statue erected in my honour. He was not entirely pleased that, at eight months pregnant, I had been acting like someone competing in a 'World's Strongest Man' contest. 

After yesterday's mad dash, I awoke in my new bedroom, semi-paralysed, with an old lady hobble. But there was no let up - because I had the roofers in (not a dirty euphemism) and an electrician and maintenance man too! I greeted all of these men at the door without make-up, clean teeth, brushed hair... or a bra - I am a changed woman! I also had fresh baked beans juice sporadically pasted in droplets over my black top covering my mammoth belly. 

The maintenance man started to tell me a 'childbirth horror story' and I cut him off before he reached the end of his sentence, quite viciously, like a strict mother:
"Well my poor wife had to ..."

I have heard people calling this type of frantic activity 'nesting', which I don't really buy into. Nesting is basically a terrifying realisation that soon you will have absolutely no time to wash - let alone rearrange your furniture or decorate. At the moment I am so exhausted I can barely muster the energy to leave my bedroom to go for a wee. 

In other news - all anyone is talking about is the Weather - terribly British - as it has snowed for the last two days. Taxis are in short supply. As my partner and I do not currently drive, getting to the hospital has been weighing on my mind. It always seemed simple that I would get a taxi when the time came from the taxi company a road away that is open 24 hours a day. Easy. I then went on line where I learnt from various forums that taxis can refuse to take you if you are in labour. This didn't sound right to me! It didn't sound very Christian. How could anyone refuse to take a pregnant lady to hospital? 

One on-line source said that it shouldn't be too surprising that a taxi company wouldn't want amniotic fluid, blood and guts all over their vehicles - making it sound like something out of a Quentin Tarantino production! I might be a first time, 'sheltered' mum to be - but surely going into labour isn't like an explosion that can be seen and heard from miles around? The fact remains, however, that when our time comes, I will need to get to hospital by some means. 

I intend on spending the next week practicing my polite phone voice saying 

How are you today?
can I have a taxi please? 
An hour wait you say? 
Oh no, that is absolutely fine.
Whenever you can, please. 
I don't mind waiting, no, no. 
I would like to go to the (coughs) hospital please. 
No wing in particular, no, no. 
If you could just drop me somewhere in the vicinity of the hospital
Thanks so much.
And just out of interest,
do you have waterproof seating?" 

while my partner continually stabs me in the eye.

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