So here I am, wedged into my sofa, Jeremy Kyle blaring out in the background (my baby must think he is about to come in to a very dysfunctional, foul mouthed family - and he is half right), sipping on my Raspberry Leaf tea, sniffing my Lavender candles, gnawing on some Pineapple, just chilling. Ok, I made up the Pineapple bit.
6 days to go till I supposedly go "boom!" and it surely is a spiffing-ly frivolous entertaining, 'kick your heels in the air' time! It is wonderful. Honestly.
My stomach is so comically distended now that I literally look like a comedy pregnant caricature - grotesque and ... bulbous. Like a big farcical ... bulb. The feelings I once felt in my 'morning sickness' months have come back with a vengeance. I can barely cough or brush my teeth without following it with an attractive course of retching.
My heartburn (which has been my arch nemesis during these 9 months) has swung back around with a new determined attitude.
I can't think of anything worse than going out and I can't stand being 'in'. Nothing fits me anymore so I am living in pyjamas (not completely clean) or leggings and a stretchy vest. I can no longer be bothered to put make up on, wash, dry or style my hair, and I have already detailed the problems I am having re: the brushing of my teeth.
I have had my fill of day time television. My morning routine consists of blundering out of bed, wee-ing for the umpteenth time, retching over the sink whilst battling with the Colgate, slithering downstairs, tidying the kitchen, eating Digestive biscuits (the only thing my stomach can handle), drinking tea, overdosing on Antacids and sobbing at sad stories on the news.
After a few more cups of tea (if I can move off the sofa to make them) and numerous toilet visits to empty my squashed bladder, I crawl back up to bed at around 4pm because I need to lie horizontally as sitting up just hurts too much. I await my partner's return at 5.30pm, say hello. He forces some dinner down me and I go back to sleep, some days, as early as 8pm.
Ooh! I missed a bit out! At 7pm every evening like clockwork, my baby wakes up and decides to beat me up. He flails his arms around bashing the sides of my pelvis and shakes his head from side to side sending agonising twinges through my nerves and placing unimaginable pain into my pubic area. He kicks and kicks and moves around battering my rib cage and (I am not a medically trained professional) pummels my internal organs to within an inch of their life. If you look at my stomach from the outside during this time it looks like an amateur horror film trying to rival the famous 'Alien' scene and I am convinced that at some point he will burst triumphantly out of my skin!
The highlight of my week was having my face waxed. And when I say I had my face waxed - I really mean she waxed my entire face. The only hairs she left on were on my eyebrows and my eyelashes. She may as well have covered me in wax and cut out two eye holes before wrenching it off. She was only supposed to clean up my eyebrows and get rid of my little tache. But she kept on suggesting that she do other parts of my face.
It'll be your hormones dear,
once we have done your top lip ...
there's just a little bit on your chin,
oh ... and here,
there's a little bit on the sides of your face,
oh...
and if you don't mind me saying,
you have a little bit under your bottom lip...
that's it.
All done.
But...
as we are here,
there are some hairs on your cheeks too..."
Bloody hell. Why don't I just jump on the 'Circus Show' tour bus? I could see the world.
I am angry. I am hormonal. I am sick to death of being pregnant.
And ladies... Listen to your instincts. If you feel like you would rather not learn too much about childbirth and could do without Antenatal classes. Do not, I repeat, do not - decide to go to one class just before your last week of pregnancy because someone told you it would be empowering. It will not be empowering. It will be gut-twistingly horrific, mortifying and scarring.
They put on a video of a birth. I was forced to stare at the wall, bite my lip and hold back the tears while my partner watched completely unfazed (well, it's not going to happen to him and he has watched 'The Human Centipede' twice). I can still hear the woman's screams of "Get it out! Get it out!". I have not slept properly for days.
It does not help the pregnant population to tell them at 38 weeks that the baby is fully 'cooked' and in the words of my midwife "could come any time now". Then leave them for two weeks stressing and waiting and panicking - like waiting for a big blister to burst. Especially when you know full well it could be ANOTHER 4 WEEKS from this time before you actually have your baby.
My baby is due two days before Valentines day and the adverts for the obligatory meal deals and personalised cards are in full force while my partner and I's romantic plans may consist of lots of violent hand holding and me calling him a Bastard. I can't do anything!
I want to dye my dark roots but I dare not. What if I put on a head-ful of L'Oreal number 1 and my waters break? The bleach would eat my scalp away and leave me a newly bald new mother several hours later! What if my contractions start while I am immac-ing my unmentionables? Childbirth looks painful enough without having charred privates due to leaving on hair removal treatments. It was an exceedingly trying hour when the lovely beautician was waxing my entire face last week - no one should be forced to give birth with wax strips flapping in the wind hanging off their sideburns.
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