What! She's rubbing cream in! I hate that! But it's on my face, and I love having my face stroked. So am I loving this or hating it? Is this the baby version of a Camberwell carrot or is it an outrage?
Cry or sleep? Cry or sleep? This is just too much of a quandry for my tender age.
*WAIL*
*snooze*
*WAIL*
*snooze*
*WAIL*
*snooze*...
Imagine that you had a tiny two week old baby, and that you were just coming to grips with your first few days at home alone. Then imagine that you had a friend who came round in the afternoon and,
1. Brought with her all the ingredients necessary to make you a delicious lunch,
2. Sat and enjoyed a nice big glass of wine with you as you ate said lunch,
3. Brought your baby a present which was actually useful,
4. Held your baby for ages so that you could go and dye your roots, the last remaining thing that you needed to do to feel back in the land of the living.
Wouldn't such a friend be worth her weight in gold?
Earlier this evening Bruno trotted off to the birthday party next door, while I stayed behind pacing the floor with a very unhappy little chap as he painfully squeezed out one eye-watering fart after another.
Shortly after Bruno called me from next door to tell me what a great party I was missing out on, I changed a nappy which was so full of radioactive poo that it was nearly disintegrating. As I changed his nappy, little chap continued to poo. And poo. And poo. The resulting pile of nappy and baby wipes had to be double-bagged in perfumed nappy sacks.
As I sat and rocked a now sweeter smelling but still wide awake little chap, serenading him with every song I knew to drown out the noise of the obviously joyous party going on next door, I looked down at the little body which was slowly sending my arm into a painful numbness.
And then he looked up at me with his huge eyes, and I was hit with a wave of love so powerful that I thought my heart would explode. What a brilliant evening with my little chap.
I don't care what the Swiss-Mothering-Fascists say; if I ever meet the person who invented this, I'm just going to give them a great big High Five.
You may think that you've seen more beautiful babies, but you'd just be wrong.
I am repeatedly told that I have a very small bump. To the point that the nurse at my appointment yesterday thought she had written down my weeks wrong.
That said, I'm now nine months up the duff, and even a mini bump (not that I reckon it's mini) still looks pretty bump like.
In the three or four months that I have been visibly pregnant, nobody has ever offered me a seat on the bus. Not once. I have no driving licence, so it's not like buses are a one off thing for me.
Yesterday I had to travel about twelve stops to a prenatal appointment. Having nabbed the good seat at the front by the driver, I then gave it up after two stops to an elderly lady with a walking stick. An elderly lady, who, incidentally, sat down without any acknowledgement that I had given her my seat.
As I was now standing at the front of the bus looking like a pregnant beached whale, another woman standing up kindly pointed out that one of the other seats had just become free. Except that the man standing next to her also noticed her gesture and did one of those comedy slip-into-a-seat-on-a-crowded-bus moves, the one where you head towards the seat bum first. Now would be a good time to mention that the other standing lady was also pregnant, although less far along.
I spent the next fifteen minutes making sure that I caught the eye of every healthy person sitting down, met in return with blank, if benign, stares.
Finally at stop number ten, another seat became free. As I made my way towards it, a middle aged well dressed woman actually tried to beat me to it, giving me an annoyed look of defeat when I got there first.
The community spirit here is so refreshing.
It turns out that MiniBruno is a little too eager to make his debut, and I have been told by the doctor that I have to stay "quiet and still" for the next three weeks at least, to make sure he stays where he is.
I'm so bored.
Did you know that daytime telly is actually really shit? Not in a shit-but-mindnumbingly-enjoyable way, just really shit. Except for Doctors, of course, which is magic.
I'm so bored.
And if anybody so much as insinuates that I should "Enjoy it while I can!!" because it won't be long before I'll be dreaming of lazy days, they will run the very real risk of being happy-slapped by my bulbous midriff. As soon as I'm back on my feet that is. I'm really bored.
The baby's due in seven weeks.
We're four hours in to enforced rest.
The subject of a "baby fund" has recently been popping up on a fairly regular basis in the posts of various esteemed Voxers.
Are you supposed to SAVE UP before getting pregnant? Is this the done thing? Could no-one have mentioned this to me eight months ago? Does the theory of "don't worry, we'll save money by never being able to go out again" not hold water in reality? Does a due date of 11th November mean that it's too late to start the baby fund now?
In a week that people with a very similar name to my own have lost £631m, prospects of a silver spoon for MiniBruno are not looking good. Unless I find one on ebay, which is where everything else has come from.
Turns out that the woman at work with a sprained ankle might actually have post-traumatic arthritis.
God I feel really bad now.
Dear Various people at work with sprained wrists/ankles/etc.
If I see you hobbling about in a pantomime attempt to get sympathy for your minor injury, and am polite enough to ask you what might be wrong, please don't answer "Who knows?! A sprain? ARTHRITIS?!?" and then give me a knowing look as we are now obviously in the same boat.
This is actually quite offensive.
Thanks.
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