So, how are you feeling?

Well, I’m still here. Littlespud decided to stay put for a while and let mummy, daddy and crazypixie enjoy all the wedding festivities. And enjoy them we did.

Except, for one small thing…….I seem to have been perceived as some kind of freak show.

I understand people mean well and ,in fairness, I am pretty huge at the moment and my mother has been telling everyone (random strangers included) that I’m due any minute and that they didn’t even think I’d make the wedding, but….there are a few phrases I must have heard a hundred times in the last two days.

These include:

‘How are you feeling?’ Long stress on the ‘feeeeling’, and usually accompanied by a hand on the shoulder and concerned stare. I tried the nonchalant ‘I’m feeling fine, how are you?’ and, after an hour or two, the slightly more concise, ‘Pregnant.’

‘When are you due?’ A few times I went with honesty and answered, ‘Yesterday,’ but the hoo-haa that elicited was often more than I was able for. Once I muttered ‘September,’ and I think that poor lady is still looking at me.

‘Still here?’ Another phrase spoken with a smile and usually repeated by the same person every time they passed and with increasing frequency in direct correlation to the amount of alcohol they had consumed. ‘Ho, ho, yes, still here,’ I reply again and again.

‘Not going to pop on us now are you?’ This was usually accompanied by a nod and a wink, a favourite of uncle-types! ‘Any moment now!’ I muttered through smiling teeth.

‘Aren’t you great to be here in your condition?’ This is one I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to but I went with ‘Ah, sure, I’m only pregnant.’ Because it’s not as if I’ve been let out of the hospice for the occasion or anything.

I’ve debated using (and might yet):

‘Oh, I had the baby.’

‘Pregnant, me? No, do I look fat?’

or...

‘I’m feeling f*cking hormonal, so back off.’

Again, let me reiterate, I know people mean well and that they just can’t help using what must be the most obvious conversation opener but I’ve never been good at small talk or been able to handle fuss (give me a Pc to hide behind any day), so for the next few days I think it may be better if I just turn off the phone, keep my virtual self offline and generally hibernate until littlespud decides its time to meet the world.

And then…….I will text everyone, blog about the birth and update my facebook profile accordingly….unless I’m too busy with all the new baby fuss, of course!

What’s with the lemons?

Yesterday evening I was sitting back giving my poor pregnancy weary body a rest when himself poked his head in from the kitchen (yes, the wonderful man was doing the wash-up).
‘What’s with all the lemons?’
‘Lemons?’ I was confused.
Apparently I had ordered a bag of lemons with my online shopping and then bought more at the farmers market. So what was with all the lemons?
I had no idea.
I mean I remember buying them, kind of. But I have no idea what I was going to do with them.
We put it down to crazy pregnancy brain (what am I going to do when I can’t use that excuse anymore?) and laughed it off.
Then today, when my mum called over I gave her the lemons as we’ve a big family gathering on Monday and I thought they might come in useful for the ole G&T’s. So she put them in her bag.
No problems so far.
Then she went to leave and for some reason, I needed a lemon, so she agreed to leave one with me.
I then sat down and spent the next half hour smelling the lemon (I kid you not).
By now himself was home and tactfully ignoring my lemon sniffing.
But he began to get worried when I grabbed my phone, rang mum and asked for the rest of the lemons back! Not to mention half an hour later when he found me in tears because I couldn’t find my lemon.
So I’ve been drinking a kind of homemade lemon drink for the evening and we seem to have silently agreed not mention the insanity of my latest obsession.
Could this be some bizarre indication that labour is imminent or am I losing the plot altogether? Or maybe a little from column A and a little from column B?

From Mummy to Littlespud.

Littlespud,
We are all ready to meet you. Your mummy wants to hold you in her arms, cuddle you, nurse you, gaze on you with wonder and of course respond to your every demand.
Your dada wants tell you how much he loves you, to snuggle you in his strong embrace and is all set for midnight nappy changes.
Your big sister has an endless supply of kisses for you. She’s ready to rock you enthusiastically and feed you all kinds of goodies when mummy’s not looking.
You have four doting grandparents who can’t wait for a cuddle and aunties and uncles ready to shower you with love. Your brand new little cousin is looking forward snuggling with you too.
These past nine months have been wonderful, feeling you grow and begin to move and wriggle. But it must be getting quite cramped in there now. Every time you stretch your legs that’s mummy’s stomach and ribs that are getting in your way. And mummy’s pelvis is that hard thing you butt your head against as you stretch your arms into mummy’s lower intestine and playfully punch her in the cervix.
There is much more room out here and we are all so looking forward to meeting you. This week would be lovely, today even, but preferably before your uncles wedding next week.
See you soon my little love,
Mummy

Don't mess with me today!

As I’m nearing the end of this pregnancy, becoming daily less agile, enthusiastic and patient, I thought it was time to change how things are done around this house.

So for the foreseeable future:

1. All meals to be taken outdoors, where the local wildlife can do the cleaning up. I don’t care if it’s pouring rain, it’s summer and we’re picnicking!
   
2. If it’s on the floor it’s not my problem (crazypixie being the obvious exception to the rule). I cannot reach the floor, and if I could lower myself I’d probably be there for the next three weeks. The contents of the kitchen cupboards that crazypixie empties and all the scattered toys will be left for himself to deal with.
   
3. All wash-up will be left to himself. I’m too big, or else my arms are too short, but I cannot reach the sink!
   
4. No laughing at the pregnant lady. Grunting helps me move, don’t knock it. Also comments on how huge I’ve become are not really appreciated at this stage.
   
5. Friends who call and make cups of tea, entertain crazypixie and wash their cup are welcome. Friends that bring chocolate and cake, change crazypixie’s nappy, and do the wash-up are particularly welcome.
   
6. The pregnant lady is entitled to grumble as much as she wishes, after all there is someone using her bladder as a trampoline and apparently trying to batter it’s way out through her lower back. Just smile sympathetically. Do not attempt to turn it into a joke, make light of it ,or suggest that it’s just for a few more weeks.
   
7. Take a look at me. How could I possibly be in the mood? Don’t even ask.
   
   Right, that should get things running a little more smoothly around here. I’ll just print off a copy and nail it to the drivers door of himself’s car.

Scoobidy doo, i want to be like youoooo....

Crazypixie is proving herself a great mimic. While we were visiting my lil sis and hubby at the weekend, they were in knots of laughter as she bent down to pick something up.
What, I asked.
Hadn’t I noticed she was grunting and sighing?
Apparently every time she bent down, went to pick something up or even lowered herself to sitting, she was grunting……….like a pregnant woman!
And later that day she followed sis hubby around the house doing a perfect impression in miniature of his walk, hands behind the back, long stride, much to our collective amusement.

So, I’m realising that, yes, we parents have a huge influence on this little persons behaviours and attitudes (oh, the weight of parenthood) and, who’d have thought it, I’m now a role model (methinks mummy’s crazy 20’s will have to become a family secret and never be mentioned!)

However, please note that crazypixies tendency to run around the house naked clutching only her green handbag did not come from me, nor did her penchant for parading in front of the mirror wrapped up in my ‘special occasion’ silk negligee. No, I’ll lay claim only to those traits that reflect well on me!

The indignity of it all.

So, I’m in my last month of pregnancy and it’s not pretty. Within an hour of getting up this morning I had done the ole pee-while-you-sneeze trick and my boobs had leaked everywhere. And it’s not as if I have that many spare changes of clothes - nothing fits!!!!

Not only do I look like I’ve swallowed my yoga ball but you should see the monstrosities that were once my boobs. I’m currently at an F-cup (sigh I miss my C’s) and if the last pregnancy is anything to go by I’ll be dragging out the H-cup scaffolding in a few weeks.

I’m also discovering the joys of haemorrhoids and chronic 24/7 indigestion. I fear this baby will be peppermint flavoured as I singlehandedly quadruple Gaviscon’s European sales figures. Not to mention the mood swings that turn me from sobbing wretch to eye-gouging demon and back, in a flash and for no particular reason.

And look at what I have to look forward to in labour: internal exams by the entire hospital staff, pooping all over the labour ward (himself thinks this part is hilarious and still slags me over the last time), and stitches that I’ll have to pee on!!!

'What did you expect?' You might ask…..
'You only had 6 months between pregnancies, surely you knew all about the upcoming discomforts?'

But here’s the thing…….

There is some fundamental wiring problem in the female brain when it comes to pregnancy. Once the birth is over and you are holding your little bundle of joy all memories of morning sickness, epic labours, stitches, piles and all the other wonders magically disappear.

Two months after giving birth to crazypixie I found myself gazing teary-eyed at pregnant women and muttering my to (ever-patient) himself, ‘I’d love to be pregnant again.’

Four months later, I’m pregnant, feeling crap and moaning (to slightly less patient) himself that this pregnancy is much worse than the last and that I don’t remember feeling so sick and hormonal. He replies, ‘it’s the same.’

At eight months I’m thinking maybe two kids will be plenty but every now and then I joke to himself (who’s trying to dredge up any remaining patience) ‘sure I could be pregnant again next Christmas!’

The reply?

‘Well, it won’t be mine!’

Time to relax...kind of

I got a bit of a wake up call this week. After a visit to the GP which became an immediate call to my obstetrician and then a trip to the hypertension unit in the maternity hospital I’m finally admitting that, yes I’m heavily pregnant and might need to slow down a little.

I think it was the prospect of being kept in for observation or worse still developing preeclampsia that put the skids on me. Himself has made it his mission to ensure I relax (to the extent that he gave up a ticket to see his beloved Leinster win the semi final yesterday). It’s just, I’m just not very good at it; I prefer to keep both body and mind busy.
So I’ve borrowed some fiction books from my mum (I’d given up buying fiction myself as I just didn’t have the time) and promised to go to bed before eleven. The ole hypnobirthing programme is being dragged out and I’m determined to get beyond track 1, CD1.
At least we’re all sleeping now. The sleep plan first implemented two months ago has proved a resounding success. Crazypixie goes to bed at 7 wakes at 8 and naps for an hour during the day (fingers crossed it’ll last). Thank you Elizabeth Pantley.

But I do need some things to keep me occupied (besides looking after a wired 14 month old) so I’ve begun washing all the baby clothes and decided it’s time to pack a hospital bag. I’m pottering away at keeping the Protect Child Benefit site updated and working on developing my own site for summer launch (and bonding with Microsoft Expression in the process). And did I mention we put the house on the market last week, in the hope of moving to greener pastures?