With one son due Christmas Day and arriving Christmas Eve and our new arrival due 13th December with the potential of being overdue by two weeks, we are panicking. I do not need, require, nor want another baby Jesus on the horizon.
To add to the previous concerns of low iron and goodness knows what, it is time to get serious and dose up with Floradix and bouncing around like a crazy lady on my fitness ball whenever I get the chance; apparently it can encourage little one to turn and avoid a slightly more complicated labour by being back to back.
People must wonder what on earth is going on as I hop from room to room and even on one occasion answer the door to our lovely postman while still kangarooing around. It’s turned into quite a habit. I think I might miss this.
At my last antenatal appointment on 9th December, I find out it’s all paid off. Iron levels are back to normal, and little man has moved. Success. The downside is my Girdle (yes, I did just use the word “girdle”) is not good. The pelvic pains are now getting worse and preventing me from sleeping.
How cruel can pregnancy be?
You’re supposed to use this time to store your energy. Instead, I am more tired and exhausted than I have ever been, and that’s before a screaming baby looking like my Grandad rocks up and wants to feed thirty million times a night.
Morning comes and I down a carton of pineapple juice – nothing happens. So the following day, I decided to take matters into my own hands and go for a takeaway curry Sunday night, a curried stew for lunch Monday, Chinese chilli beef noodle salad for lunch Tuesday and Mexican tacos and fajitas for dinner. On Wednesday we keep up the spice (that is supposed to induce labour) and have an extra kicky Thai green curry and… I still don’t have a baby. Instead, I have a pile the size of Europe from all the spice. I am sure that wasn’t supposed to happen, and now I have visions of the said pile, whom we have called Bernard (sorry to all the Bernards out there) exploding as our little ones head engages, and I push. In my mind, the midwife is covered in poo. The room is covered in gunk, and then Beard vomits. I really need to get these visions out of my head immediately.
Despite a pile the size of Europe, I attempt to get a bit of action in the bedroom. That will definitely get the baby moving. However, despite my advances, Beard informed me that this was not going to happen. His exact words? “I can’t go anywhere near you! Are you joking?! My nob will literally be in the baby’s face! That’s child abuse!!! It’s, it’s, it’s… I can’t even begin to imagine what it is, but it’s disgusting. Not because of you. But, but, but…” And he gestures to the vagina I still apparently have. Haven’t seen it for weeks now.
So to make everything better, I decide to eat an entire Victoria Sponge. For as long as I can remember I have been consuming cake by the kilo. I’m not entirely sure how much of my bump is lemon drizzle and how much is our baby… I literally crave it from the second my eyes open, and I blame the baby. The baby want’s cake, not me.
By the 12th December, I think my overdose of spice is paying off, I lose my mucus plug, and there is enough pressure in my pelvis to believe that Hiroshima is being reenacted. Despite being unable to walk, scared to fart and concerned that I may snap at any given moment – these are all good signs. Have you got your maternity bag? The baby is on his way. Isn’t he…?