39 Weeks Pregnant - 105 years versus 9 months

You learn quite a bit when you have insomnia. For example, Tenpin Bowling is an actual sport! It is on Sky Sports 3! Granted - it is on at 3am - but it is on. 

Also we don't have any Adult channels in our TV package - which is a shame, as some of the titles are very intriguing. I would love to know why those housewives are so filthy - especially as I know, personally, that I get ample enough time to keep the house clean and tidy being home all day.

I also learnt that we have children's channels I never knew we had before. Including ones that show retro shows like Wacky Races and Top Cat. This will be very handy soon when I am a mum as I can just prop my son up in front of the TV set and enjoy my morning G and T. This is of course a joke...

I much prefer a Martini in the morning. 

Again, mother - I am jesting. 

It might be the hormones or the lack of sleep but I truly believe that "I wonder why" by Curtis Stigers is the best song ever written. I wept through it whilst doing the washing up this morning. well - it's so sad! 

All together now... and I wonder why we hold on, with tears in our eyes, and I wonder why we have to break down, to just make it right. and I wonder why I can't seem to tell you goodbye, oh I wonder why... 

I have had a lot of time to come up with innovative horse puns and humorous horse jokes after more revelations about the "beef based" food we are eating and its close sordid affair with horse. I have re-discovered faceinhole.com which means I can spend hours superimposing my face onto ... horses or famous pregnant women or obese animals. 

If I can get close enough to the dinner table I can start jigsaw puzzles ... and then stop them an hour later because my back hurts too much. I can peruse the Mothercare Catalogue several times a day and see all the things I haven't got yet and panic about whether or not I really do need them - and read breast pump reviews. Fun fun fun.

Last night I made a curry with three large green chillies in it, and two garlic cloves, and several Indian spices. My partner decided to sleep in the spare room soon after this - apparently in a bid to get a good nights sleep - and we both did. I feel a lot brighter today. I feel 'separate beds' might be the future! Although my stomach has seen better days ... 

4 days to go and my baby is the size of a . . . mini watermelon. I knew 'watermelon' would one day come! Boredom and cabin fever has sincerely set in. I sway vigorously from being terrified of giving birth to being the most 'ready' person that has ever existed. If my waters broke now I would be deliriously happy. I might do a little jig. 

I spent yesterday Googling 'ways to bring on labour' which included

• Spicy food 
• Scrubbing the floor on your hands and knees 
• Caster Oil (the thought of this put my partner off his Tuna Melt) 
• Lavender Oil 
• Bouncing on a birthing ball 
• Sex (the thought of this put my partner off his Tuna Melt) 
• Reading erotic fiction on the toilet and
• Walking up and down the stairs like a crab* 

*Presumably not all at the same time. 

I went for numero uno in the end. Probably not the best choice when it comes to my chronic vomit inducing heartburn, but the other options just seemed like a lot of hard work. And as for reading erotic fiction or having sex - are you being serious? I feel about as erotic as a used tea bag. 

I saw an episode of Ellen's talk show yesterday in which she interviewed a woman who was 105 years old. The woman was full of life, sprightly, youthful, cheeky and bursting with the joys of Spring. And she was 105! It made me feel bad. Here I am moaning about 9 little months and this woman has been living for one hundred and five years! Ellen asked "What is your secret?" 

The 105 year old lady told her that the secret to long life was to be positive; to "not worry or stress about things in life that you can not control".

I might not be long for this Earth if that is the case.

I might have a little watch of my 'Les Mis'. If there is anything that can make you feel a little bit more positive about life it's watching Les Mis. I mean, at least I am not prisoner 24601 ... or a prostitute. I am a very very lucky pregnant lady. So in the spirit of Les Mis: 

Tomorrow we'll discover

What our God in Heaven has in store!

One more dawn

One more day

One ... day ... more!

39 Weeks Pregnant - Extremely Angry Yeti - Playing The Waiting Game

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.

38 Weeks pregnant - Cause it’s a bittersweet Symphony - this life

My job, my one chore, my purpose, every week day at this point during my maternity leave is to clean the 'bomb site' that I call our kitchen. I throw on something warm and unimaginably unflattering and toddle my front heavy, cumbersome frame down to inspect the debris that my 'working man' has left behind. 

It feels quite therapeutic - bleaching the coffee and tea stains off the white surfaces, scouring hard set sauce from pans, scooping up the mountains of crumbs that must result in (one can only imagine) men preferring to eat toast off the unhygienic counter top as opposed to a plate! And I have found turning on the local radio station, nice and loud, while I am doing this, really makes the job a joyous one. It turns the chore into a Mary Poppins-esque scene; "And ev'ry task you undertake becomes a piece of cake A lark! A spree! It's very clear to see that - A Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down."

Well - a few mornings ago my humble kitchen was transported into a disco dance floor and I was taken back to the age of eighteen. My local radio station were encouraging listeners in a common guessing game of 'guess the year' by playing various hits from a particular time. For me - there was no 'guessing' involved. As soon as the first hit started I knew the year, I knew the time, I knew where I was, I knew who I was with and I was transported back to those amazing moments in my life. 

It was the year 2000, we had survived New Years, I was approaching my eighteenth birthday and I had my first ever real life boyfriend. The radio blared out 'Toca's Miracle (Fragma), Can't fight the moonlight (Leann Rimes) and Movin too fast (Artful Dodger). I swayed around the kitchen (and I like to think the baby was bopping away too) remembering those first kisses, those nights out, those friendships, that excitement and the anticipation of that time - life and independence was just beginning. Babies were the furthest possible thing from my mind.

Some of the happiest moments in my life have been punctuated by songs. 

I will always remember, during three months when I worked for The Queensland Government (Water Restriction Department), strutting down Queens Street in Brisbane, Australia wearing smart heels, clutching a Venti Starbucks Coffee, in the blistering sun, listening to Lilly Allen's version of The Kaiser Chiefs' 'Oh my God I can't Believe it, I've never been this far away from home'. I would listen to it every morning and in my head repeat those lyrics - I couldn't believe I was that far away from home! And I would feel as though I was floating down that street.

Similarly, music can take us back to dark, more painful moments. For example, during a 12 mile bike ride through the country (in an attempt to lose weight) where my pubic area was put through more than it could handle - oh the pain, the pain! - I listened to Mumford and Sons' album 'sigh no more' on repeat, several times. The men sang out "And I'll find strength in pain, And I will change my ways, I'll know my name as it's called again". Even now I hear Mumford and Sons' banjo start up, wince and cross my legs. I couldn't sit down properly for days. 

Amy Winehouse's 'Back to Black' and anything by Adele takes me back to awfully painful break-ups. 'Warmer Climate' by Snow Patrol transports me to my year of travelling in 2007/2008. Baby D 'Let me be your fantasy' scoops me up and puts me on my first ever nightclub dance floors at 17. Oasis's early work puts me in my old tiny bedroom, staring at posters of Noel Gallagher, dreaming about the days I would one day be on 'Top of The Pops' and replace his wife: Meg Matthews (I still consider it an absolute travesty that this didn't happen). And East 17, oh East 17 (I can feel you judging me) - I. thought. they. were. 'it'!

If I want to feel close to my Father all I need to do is pop on some Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen. If I hear Sinead O'connor start up "It's been seven hours and fifteen days...." I am sat next to my Mother in the car belting it out, hoping that she doesn't put her 'Wet Wet Wet' CD on next. My childhood ears were filled with 'Ace of Base', 'Gabrielle' and 'Alanis Morissette'. And my childhood was a very happy one. 

I have 7 days to go till I pop (supposedly) and my baby all week has been the size of a Leek. I have packed, unpacked and re-packed my 'hospital bag' several times and read lists (sometimes unimaginably long) of items women recommend you should take to hospital with you. Nearly all of them include 'music'. For me, this is a brilliant idea, as music has always brought me comfort. 

So a few days ago I started to compile my 'playlist for pain'. After much deliberation I decided to choose songs that either blocked the world out with their atmospheric sounds (Massive Attack, Portishead), songs by strong women (Alanis Morissette, Sheryl Crow, Chaka Khan) and songs that just make me happy (Shakespears Sister, 4 Non Blondes and Tears for Fears)! 

In those moments of agony and anguish, I hope that Chaka Khan will help me get through and make me feel like I can do it, that I am a strong woman, that I can do what billions have done before, that I am 'every woman'. 

"I'm every woman, It's all in me, anything you want done baby, I'll do it naturally" 

Well, almost naturally ... 

I am thinking of purchasing a different pregnancy app. Although the idea of my baby being as long and streamline as a Leek is reassuring. I almost hope that I don't give birth early so I can see what natural product is on the list for 39 weeks (a Marrow? an extra large pineapple perhaps). Back in the day a poppy seed or a pear was cute - but now, what am I to do with a 'Crenshaw Melon' or a 'Swiss Chard'? They are hardly the most comforting items. 

Enough with the fruit! 

38 weeks pregnant - MISSING: Mummy’s Modesty. 7lb reward

A Birthing 'Plan' just seems against nature to me. In my opinion it feels similar to 'planning' how your house is going to burn down. Never the less, prior to my midwife appointment yesterday; braver, stronger, much fatter - I read through the questions again and stopped at a category called 'Options for Labour and Delivery' - next to it I scribbled nervously one thing and one thing only:

"Modesty is important to me and I would like it to be respected'.

It may surprise you that 'modesty' or dignity is still at the top of my list of priorities... But it is.

Talking of modesty... on Saturday I had a bra fitting as I decided I might need a 'Nursing Bra' (whatever this is) to go with my Nursing chair and scary looking 'Breast Pads'. I have been for a couple of bra fittings before in my life but prefer not to stand in front of a stranger in a bra - especially an ill fitting one (bra, not stranger). The lovely woman on Saturday asked me to strip down to my bra, before whipping out a tape measure and handing me a 'Nursing Bra' through the small gap in the door she said "Just give me a little call when you've got it on dear". I did as I was told and put on my new bra. Lovely.

When I was sure I was 'decent' and covered up in my new bra I called the lady in. "Oh Lovely!" she said, "Lovely fit". This wasn't as bad as I had thought it might be - my dignity, my modesty, was still intact and I had a nice new bra. I couldn't see the difference between this one and any other normal bra but I would buy it if they said I 'needed' it.

All was calm. All was well. All was 'dignified'. "Lovely," she said again and then, quick as a flash, pressed something on my shoulder, RELEASING MY BREAST LIKE THE UNVEILING OF A NEW PIECE OF ARTWORK TO AN EAGER AUDIENCE!

My colossal, swollen, naked, uncovered, exposed, pink breast just jiggled there, reverberating from the shock, like a Raspberry Fool - my jumbo nipple staring us both in the face, framed by two contrasting black straps on the top and bottom of it. This bra had trap doors! And there I stood, my modesty gone, with a non medically trained stranger. "That's what you do when you want to feeeed" she said cheerfully. Wonderful. Thank you. And thanks for the warning. She "left me to it" once more - although I wondered why as there was nothing not to see anymore. 

I bought two.

I am concerned though that there will be more indignity and exposure to come before the labour. I have already heard several whispers about 'Sweeps' - and I have a horrible feeling these are nothing to do with 'Sooty'...

38 weeks pregnant - A Series of Unfortunate Baby Related Events

38 weeks pregnant and you can't swing a cat without whacking a shocking baby news story in your appalled face. Last week we had the report that a nurse had 'taped' a dummy to a baby's mouth in a hospital - and this week we had the story of a baby that was blown into the sea (complete with pram) as the child's mother went for a walk down the pier. Both babies, you'll be pleased to know, are safe and well. But it is news stories like this that were literally written for (and sometimes I think 'by') my mother. 

As if the precautionary list of what to 'be careful of' wasn't long enough - you can now add walking down piers and letting nurses look after your baby to it. I have grown up, for 30 years, with the constant doom and gloom warnings from my mother like a constant stream of piss on my various parades.

As I would leave for my daily train journey she would warmly wave me off, suggest I have a good day - and finish it off with a flurry of "Don't walk too close to the track darling in case a gust of wind blows you onto the track and you are flattened by an oncoming train." As I went on dates with boyfriends she would tell me I look wonderful, kiss me goodbye and see me off with "If you break up with him dear, make sure you do it in a public place with lots of witnesses, there was a girl somewhere, Manchester I think it was, where the boy chopped her up and stuffed her under the sofa when she broke up with him." If I wanted to book a holiday I would be met with "Oh no, you can't go to that country dear, only the other day a woman there was sold for Camels and she wasn't found for ten years."

Tonight she called me and asked if I was alright and if I was warm. She is obsessed with my body temperature. I explained that I was very warm and cosy and had the candles on the mantelpiece going. "Brilliant darling, so glad, keep warm sweetie, just make sure you don't fall asleep with those candles on dear and burn to death". My mother - the foreteller of demise. It's a wonder she doesn't carry a Scythe in her handbag.

She came to visit last weekend and took me shopping. We were in the open air at a large shopping complex and two men walked past us puffing away on cigarettes. "DON'T BREATHE IN THAT SMOKE DARLING!" she hollered as we walked past the two shell shocked looking men. The subtext being "You are killing my Grandson you Bastards!"

And regarding my cat "Don't leave the baby alone dear anywhere incase the cat jumps on to the baby's face and goes to sleep and smothers the baby". The news in the UK is littered with 'Cat smothering stories" of course - honestly, if I have to hear about one more feline related baby tragedy...

I have only ever seen my mother played in a film once - when I saw Aunt Josephine from Lemony Snicket's 'A Series of Unfortunate Events' played by the wonderful Meryl Streep. As she showed her child guests around her house she warned them of the various hazards:

• "This is the couch, Please, do not go anywhere near it. If it falls, it'll crush you flat."
• "This is the telephone, It should only be used in emergencies because it could electrocute someone."
• "When you open this door, just push the wood here. Never use the doorknob. I'm afraid that it might shatter into a million pieces, and that one of them will hit my eye."
• "Not that quickly! You could trip over the welcome mat and decapitate yourselves!

You can see why I felt I had seen this 'Aunt Josephine' somewhere before.

I fear when the baby is here this can only get worse. We already know that, according to her, my cat is a ticking time bomb. She has already called me to tell me that I shouldn't use Talcum Powder as the baby will breathe it in and choke. She has warned us that we can't walk the baby home in a pram because he will breathe in the freezing air. We are not to make our house too cold for the baby - but of course it shouldn't be too hot. 

She also warned us of the perils of leaving the baby alone for one second with any nurse at the hospital - however nice they appear to be and regaled the story of 'The Baby Killer' nurse, asking my partner "Do you remember her dear? Beverley Allitt? The Angel of Death? So please don't let any of the nurses look after the baby"; rendering the nurses basically redundant - and turning us both into gibbering wrecks.

She asked me quite seriously "Are you going to be careful when you walk down the stairs with the baby darling? And will you use the banister?" We told her that we would use the bannister! To slide the baby down - whilst being as careless as possible, so that it lands in a laundry basket placed at the bottom. 

Hopefully the cat will then curl up on top of him, thinking he is washing. 

15 days . . . .

37 weeks pregnant - Romance Found Dead - Bludgeoned by Pooper Scooper

Do you know what I am particularly worried about? 

Defecating in front of my partner during childbirth.

I thought this was perhaps a myth - but I have since learnt it is more or less an inevitability. Of course, the midwife or doctor may see this happen, I have accepted that - but then she or he has probably seen many a young lady divorce her bowels in those last moments. It is, dare I say it, to come with the territory of having your head where it is and shouting at women to 'PUSH'!  The man (or woman) that you love though? - well that is a different story. I mean, really, without romance or mystery in a relationship - where are we?

When we get pregnant and this air of romance and mystery gets harder and harder to maintain. The urgency, and frequency, with which we need to pass wind, for example, takes us by surprise. And I can tell you, that having to excuse myself several times an evening to go to the bathroom just to expel such wind is exceedingly trying. But, so far, at 37 weeks pregnant, I have been able to avoid it.

Unfortunately one thing I have not been able to avoid is the daily discussion of bowel motions. They are just so high up on your priority list and can mean the difference between a bad day or a good day - and can even indicate the onset of labour - so talking about 'constipation' for example, has become de rigueur.

My partner finds my prudish ways very amusing, and I feel lives in hope, of my facade dropping once, just once. More than that, when I mention the horror I feel about the prospect of 'pooping on the bed' at the hospital, under florescent lights, his face lights up, an evil smile spreads across his face and he gets a twinkle in his eyes.

I know that the idea of my complete lack of dignity and having to do this in front of him is spicing up his life at the moment. If this is to happen to me it will make his year, if not his decade, and I know he will never. let. it. go.  I can imagine him in five years time still bringing it up at dinner parties.

I can imagine making him look like a fool in a very jovial way with friends for example "You said 'Saturday' but it's Sunday" and laughing,

and him replying with "Whatever love... you shat yourself".

Once you do a poop in front of your partner.

The power, I fear, will never ever be yours again.

19 days.

37 Weeks Pregnant - The Sweaty Ostrich and the Swiss Chard

While the snow has been coming down more and more ferociously and the UK goes into its usual exaggerated panic - I have been vigorously crossing my legs. Usually snow is my favourite forecast and, for me, indicates some days off work and long, romantic, magical walks alone in the park, marvelling at the ducks on the frozen lake. This year, for the first year, I am unable to enjoy it. I am too afraid of slipping over or falling down, like the proverbial 'sack of shit', to go out and make novelty snow sculptures or enjoy any of these Narnia like surroundings.

I am 37 weeks pregnant and the baby is the size of a Swiss Chard (I have no idea what this is). I have been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately and am starting to worry about the inevitable sleep deprivation to come. I finally managed to drop off at around 8am yesterday and was woken up ten minutes later by aggressive banging (oh grow up!) on the front door. It took a while for me to understand what was happening. I managed to fall out of bed and was half way down the stairs when I realised I was naked. I ran back upstairs and managed to pull on my Disney Bambi jumper and leggings. Bambi is side-on on the front of the jumper and his eye is knitted over my bump. The jumper used to look quite flattering. It is now stretched to fuck - and Bambi looks like a scary Cyclops looming over my feet. The banging continued. I thrust open the front door expecting the four horses of the Apocalypse - but it was a delivery man.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!" He shouted.

"I ...was .....asleep" I muttered, still shocked

"WELL THAT'S JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" He shouted.

What a super sense of humour. Hilarious I'm sure.

My weekend was long and depressing - my partner wanting to relax - and me wanting the attention I had not had all week like a small neglected Shih Tzu. This is not the best combination in a relationship. I was too scared to venture out in the snow and ice - and my partner spent each evening ferrying food I fancied to me through the blizzard.

Yesterday I was visited in my home by my 'Health Visitor'. I was excited for her arrival as I don't get to socialise with anyone nowadays other than my partner and, on occasion, my mother. Always a joy. She came in what then transpired was an interview worthy of Piers Morgan.

How will you bond with your baby? Erm... I don't know. I...I will breast feed and erm... 

What sort of parent will you be? Erm... I will be a ....'good' parent. I will probably be like my mother. 

What do you think it will be like when you bring the baby home? Erm... I.... don't ...... know.. 

What did you eat yesterday? I know this one! .... chocolate biscuits. 

Do you feel isolated? Yes - I am isolated. 

Do you feel emotional? Yes - I always do.

Do you feel like you can't cope? I didn't before we started this..... 

Have you ever suffered from depression? Perhaps. 

Are you taking vitamins? Well, no...but....

Have you been to any classes? Well, no... but...

Have you read any books? Well, not really, but ...

Have you got a birth plan? Not in the strictest sense ...

Have you had a tour of the wards? No, I would rather not... 

She ended the barrage of questions with

"I think you have had your head in the sand". 

Yes - I might be a big fat sweaty Ostrich ... I have not given much thought to actually bringing the baby home. I have not considered 'bonding' with the baby or being a parent. I imagined it all just being natural. I thought mainly about surviving the birth. And no - I don't want to go to a 'class'! I do not want to sit around with strangers and DISCUSS the medical intricacies of getting a Swiss Chard out of my vagina - thanks very much. I will just do it.

20 days …

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 ..."

"THAT'S QUITE ENOUGH!" 

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 

"Hello, 

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.

36 Weeks' Pregnant - A Brand New Attitude

The main reason I have been against having a baby the majority of my life (up until eight months ago) is because of the pain factor involved in giving birth. The primal screams let out by mothers in labour on the TV send chills down your spine - and those women only have a cushion up their jumpers. I had a feeling the real life pain of childbirth was going to be much worse. 

People talk a lot about your 'pain threshold' and ability to cope with pain and my worry has always been that throughout my life I have not experienced any real pain. The only time I have writhed about in sheer agony in my life has been after a bad break-up. Physically wise - I have only ever broken my toe three different times (the same toe). The third time I didn't even bother going to the hospital. It hurt, sure, but not enough to make you cry or call anyone a bastard. Although I was eight at the time. 

Other painful experiences have been during visits to the dentist (fillings, teeth extractions and brace fittings), blood tests, and excruciating pains once a month. There was also one time that I fainted, split my head open and had to have a few stitches in the back of my head. I had to put my face through a hole in the bed in the hospital room, as a terrifying male nurse with a thick South African accent stitched me up. I couldn't feel a single thing and was quite comfortable , as I lay there listening to my hysterical mother shrieking and sobbing at the man that he was hurting her 'precious baby'. 

Barring these incidents, I have never had a bad accident, never had an operation and never had a severe illness. In that way, I must concede that I have been very lucky indeed in my life. However, the fact remains that I am completely unaware of my own ability to cope with pain. I have also harboured a phobia of giving birth my entire adult life and have gone out of my way to avoid programs that feature it, people who talk about it or learning too much (anything) about it. 

A few months into pregnancy my partner and I noticed that the popular program 'One Born Every Minute' was on one evening. I suggested we watch a bit of it to see what it was like. He was against it, but I overruled him - and I turned the channel over. There I saw two women, in separate hospital beds, who appeared highly stressed and sweaty. I watched with eyes wide, terror slowly creeping over me, before they both simultaneously projectile vomited into cardboard bowls. 

"WHY ARE THEY THROWING UP?! WHY ARE THEY THROWING UP?! I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WOULD THROW UP?! NO ONE TOLD ME THAT YOU WOULD THROW UP!?" I shrieked at my partner, tears streaming out of my eyes. 

He calmly turned the program off and told me he did not know, and several sleepless nights later I made a decision that the less I know - the better.  I only learnt around a month ago what a 'contraction' was - and only because my mother told me. It made me feel so much better to be honest - it made it sound very functional.  

But now I am at 36 weeks with only 28 days to go and something is happening to me. Where once there was a terrified, weak woman who counted down the days to labour like someone on death row etches a tally on the prison wall, counting down the days to the lethal injection, there is now a woman who is counting down the days to her due date like a child who wants to rip open his advent calendar on the 1st of December, because Christmas can't come quickly enough! 

I used to focus entirely on the agony, pain and imagined reality of childbirth and physically shake or cry with fear - but this has somehow changed to a calmer, more mature, stronger stance. I feel completely at ease with what will happen in 28 days. I feel utterly relaxed about what will be - and I have an odd sense of confidence that I never thought I would have. The confidence is almost bordering on arrogance - and I don't know why or where this has come from. 

Perhaps it is

• Being so completely fed up of being pregnant 
• The way that eight months has felt like eight long years
• My readiness and excitement to meet my little boy and be a mummy
• My anger and frustration at the struggles of being so fat and so exhausted and so useless and in so much pain all the time
• My anger at the constant tales of childbirth terror thrown at me 

That now, I have never felt so ready to do this! I have a whole new attitude! So, you can tell me how awful it is. You can tell me how difficult it is! You can go on and on and on about how much it will hurt and use all the gruesome, petrifying superlatives you like. I don't care. I can do it - I know I can! BRING IT ON BABY! 

Now preferably......