Spending a Penny at Liverpool Street

I think this could be the lyrics to a song.

I took Lucy to London on a modelling photoshoot. Once we got there it was a good laugh with lots of other nice mums and cute babies in a penthouse pad only James Bond could live in. Nevertheless getting there was hellish. I needed the loo for 3 hours and by the time we were going through Liverpool St for the second time it was non negotiable. I couldn't use the toilets as they are down below in a space no pushchair could ever venture and a 20p piece is essential. I had to go the long way round to the McDonald's on the upper level where the disabled toilets double as a baby changing space - only it almost wasn't Lucy that needed changing....

...and of course some fool was using them for 10 minutes and he was neither disabled or a baby.

The penthouse pad for the photoshoot was in a beautiful new building in the depths of hellish Hackney. I got off the train and looked at the stairs me and the pushchair would have to climb. I couldn't carry this one no matter how hard I tried. It is amazing how the dodgiest looking of folk offer to help you out. Equally the women in suits just stare or push you away (the men in suits actually help). Never judge a book by its cover. I used to be a woman in a suit. I can't remember ever offering to help.

And so we enter the week of Lucy's First Christmas to find she has 2 teeth, is almost sitting up, frequently spitting up and often shitting up.

She also laughs alot and likes to eat and choke on paper. Bless. Can't wait to unwrap those presents.

Holy Shit

Lucy did a poo in church today. Which is fine - but she does make many a noise that would suggest she is doing a poo and that is not very conducive to 'quiet' prayer...

I don't know why I was in church. Makes me feel better I guess. It certainly keeps Lucy entertained. I like to think the fundemental idea behind Christianity is to stop humans from destroying each other. But I am fairly certain the downfall of mankind and the 'end of the world' will be due to man himself. Not global warming. Or the plague. I just hope it doesn't happen this week. I have some more Christmas shopping to do and a visit to Tesco.

I am taking Lucy into London tomorrow to a place in Bethnal Green and I don't know where it is.

Pray for me. And send me chocolate.

A password a day keeps the shopping at bay...

I hate Christmas shopping. I used to love it. Any reason to blow some cash buying great stuff for poor unsuspecting friends and family. But now any opportunity to do it is limited because I only can when someone will watch the baby. I am never again squeezing myself and a pushchair into the teenie tiny M&S lift to find it get stuck. Ever. Never ever ever. Nope.

There are too many people in the world. And they all live in my town. And they are rude. Or over 382 years old - old folks that drive those shop mobility scooters are MEAN. And naughty little kids running all over the place are shits. Lucy will never be like that. She will salute and obey. Right...

Anywho...so most of my shopping has been done online. But you need a password just to look at some sites never mind place a purchase. I have so many passwords and user IDs for internet sites I could be an employee of MI5. And I am so paranoid about hackers I come up with 'clever' ideas everytime. So having the memory of a goldfish is proving a problem. PLUS to supplement my festive purchases I was going to sell some clobber on Ebay but I closed my Paypal account some time ago and as I try and start a new one it keeps saying my emails are all in use, my accounts are already registered to a Paypal account blah blah. VERY ANNOYING and VERY wrong...I closed it for &*(&^%! sake. So Ebay is out of the question for now.

Lucy recently had a lovely Christening. She behaved beautifully and even had a nap during part of the service so she was 'fresh' for the mega buffet lunch. I'll admit I was by the radiator and nodded off from time to time myself. She was given lots of very nice gifts but as the gifts got detached from the cards the thank yous are slightly tricky. Most read 'Thank you for the lovely present'. If the present wasn't that lovely it may sound OTT. HOWEVER...

...a couple of gifts were actually for me. That's my kinda Christening.

White dresses, messes and guesses...

Lucy is being Christened on Sunday. We are also having a few folks round on the Sat night, mostly Godparents. I fear I may roll into the Christening with a hangover which is just WRONG. So I have low alcohol wine (well, 9%) to sup on. Expensive stuff. Would have been cheaper to dole out nasty champers but just the thought gives me hiccups and a headache.

Lucy has a lovely white dress but her recent teething has been the cause of some 'lower movements' that stain the clothes... I hope she doesn't decide to lay one in this dress, because only a thin layer of tights seperates her nappy from exposure. She also has some windy moments that confirm her Grandad is indeed related to her. They may get picked up by the microphone the Vicar sometimes uses.

Everyone keeps asking what to wear but I honestly don't know. I have never been to a Christening. I have suggested steering clear of jeans but a flowery shirt with lapels, shiny white shoes and brown trousers will be acceptable. Not sure what the men should wear...

Blueberry Blues

I would not recommend feeding Blueberries to a baby....particularly in a white robe.

It stains everything. No matter how careful you may be you will still ponder how the hell Blueberry got on your socks and inside the dog's ear. Try picking Blueberry out of a baby's nose. It doesn't work. So you have to leave it there and in public people think baby has had an accident or worse, been battered. No one would ever suspect a sweet jar of blueberry dessert.

Plus - Blueberries come out like they went in. Horror film, slow - motion horrific when you think a 6 month old can wiggle and jiggle like James Brown as you change the nappy. But even the sweetness of Blueberries will not take the sting out of teething. So far 2 teeth and counting. They are tiny but visible - if she grins against the low winter sun, with head upside down, as I hold her with my finger in her mouth feeling for signs of more...then the BITE. Followed by pure relief that only whisky could give but I dare not try. Needless to say 6 out of 7 nights a screaming Lucy ends up in our bed.

I have a friend who has just let me know she is about 4 months pregnant. She is currently having more than her fair share of morning sickness. I dare not tell her about the Blueberries and teething... not yet.

However the jiggling like Jimmo Brown as you attempt to change a dirty nappy really must be told.

Don't do this at home...

Let me ask you something I hope you don't have to think about too much...

....would you set a firework off up your arse?

Because someone did on bonfire night....

What did he think would happen exactly? His arse is bound to end up in the air or his rung stung (depending on how the rocket was aimed). I am glad I had a little girl. Boys are stupid. I thought this when I was 8 and I think it now. I couldn't sleep at night thinking Lucy was shooting fireworks up her butt.

Lucy's teething is making us all miserable. She didn't sleep a wink last night but I was too tired to dowse her with Calpol so I had her in bed next to me trying to chew her dummy instead of suck it...for FIVE hours. Eventually she got hungry. Eventually I got hungry. Eventually the sun came up and I cursed it. Then we went into town to view some Christmas pics she had taken. Goodness me she is so cute. Sleepness nights...

...bring em on....

THANK GOD

Seems like this is a phrase that is dominant in my life at the moment -

The baby falls out of her swing chair because Momma is too stupid to strap her in. Momma goes for wee, comes back and baby is lying on wood floor dazed but happy. Proud almost. Slight dribble. THANK GOD.

Baby pulls momma's hair which is long and stringy and wraps around baby's finger. Strand of hair nearly cuts off circulation of baby's fingers but momma makes discovery of momma's hair sewn into baby's finger before it is too late... THANK GOD.

Baby is teething. First toothy peg appears. Momma puts finger in baby's mouth. Baby bites down hard. Momma is holding baby's dummy in mouth to stop it from falling on floor. Momma bites down hard. THANK GOD.

Baby is having bath. Baby wiggles likes pole dancer across her bath support (like a sun lounger with cloth). Baby nearly spins head first into bath. Momma regrets pee break at same time. Loo is within grabbing distance of bath. THANK GOD.

Vicar comes round at 8pm after Daddy's long hard day at work to discuss matters Daddy doesn't particularly believe in re Christening. Theological debate ensues. Daddy knows his stuff. Daddy swayed on certain moral issues. THANK GOD (really..)

Momma entertains teething cranky baby tirelessly all day wearing dirty jeans while thinking about dirty beadsheets, towels and washing up. Baby goes to sleep for 7 hours straight. Daddy brings home bottle of wine for Momma. THANK GOD.

Momma reads article in baby mag about baby models. Vain Momma sends off baby's pic to 5 agencies in London. All reply wanting to see baby. Lazy Momma realises she may have to cart baby off all over the town and tube. Agency has pick up drivers. THANK GOD.

Daddy goes AWOL for 30 minutes on way to bonfire night at in-laws across the park. Momma and baby and family wonder where Daddy is. Daddy is cursing the front door lock for freezing. Daddy decides it is time to replace front door. THANK GOD.

Dog pisses all over Momma and Daddy's bed because of fireworks. Local dry cleaners deal with giant duvet very quickly. THANK GOD.

Momma feels sick and tired all the time. Momma pregnant again....

JOKING.

I hope....

...or Daddy has trip to Vet's.

Very annoying things

Have you ever seen Michael Douglas in the film Falling Down? He has basically had enough of life's unfairness and starts to go more than a little crazy at situations that piss him off. I felt like him today. This is because people insist on monopolising mother and baby spaces in supermarket carparks despite their 'babies' being 12 years old. Exactly what requires a mother with kids out of car seat/pram age to require a larger space near the door and the baby trollies? More to the point some of these 'kids' are so old they can practically drive themselves. I am thinking of making up little post it notes with the words "Where is your baby?" on them and sticking them on cars I am sus of. If only I had the time.... I wonder if Tonight with Trevor McDonald would be interested.....

The only thing worse are people with no kids at all parking in mother and baby spaces. All I can say is Karma folks...karma.

My pets are also stretching my goodwill. The dog peed all over the bed last night. Very unusual but his kips on the bed are now under threat after that naughtiness. I am so annoyed because I gave him the chance to do a wee outside just before he snuggled up on the bed. The cat has completely destroyed a lovely wool rug with her scratching. I guess it matches the couches now.... and as for the baby....

...last night was night 8 in a row where she ended up having to share our bed to get to sleep.... I can only imagine what she will be like when she is a toddler...

....sigh.

How big???????

Lucy has her final set of jabs in a week or so. I remember her first set when she was tiny and two sumo style nurses came at both thighs with a needle. Needless to say Lucy cried. If that had been me I would have run.

Her second set of jabs she raised an eyebrow but didn't cry. What a hero.

Her next set who knows? But I do know she is big enough to sustain a jab or two and not get too emotional about it. Some mums in the baby clinic act as though their babies are being sent to Iraq.

I recently read through the pregnancy part of my blog to find much of it was written by a misery guts. But Lucy wasn't that big of a baby when you consider this 'little' guy who as an adult surely they will nickname 'Tiny'.

Aren't women amazing?

Snot alot

This is the sort of freaky contraption I acquired to get rid of Lucy's snot. The directions say to place at the nostril NOT in the nostril. Unless you stick it so far up the nostril that it tickles the brain, this contraption will not suck out snot. I should have stuck to the old fashioned baby aspirator...

This device may look like a freaky sex toy but it does actually work. I know because my mum used to have one for when we were babies and me and my brothers used it to suck up various things when we were toddlers - not only a magnificent snot sucker but a great toy.

Although I am sure it says on the box 'this is not a toy'.

And as for toys...

Lucy has a talking teddy bear. All you have to do is breathe on it and he talks - "Give me one kiss" "Hello I love you give me two kisses" "Yellow is the best colour!" After hearing this 987 times in less than a minute the last thing you want to do is kiss the little bastard.

So she now has a very cool aquarium light thing that I can control. And a caterpillar that sings numbers but only if you beat it with the force of The Hulk.

Great toys. Roll on Christmas.

Weaning has meaning

I have started weaning Lucy in an attempt to curb major hunger and avoid the chunky sort of baby that only 17 bottles of baby milk a day can create.

So far she loves Pears. She would eat them until she was sick...and then carry on. Much like an 18 year old with Smirnoff Ice.

No matter how runny it may be she struggles with Rice Cereal. I must see if I can make it 'sweeter'.

She was OK with Blueberries but Blueberries were NOT OK with her clothes. She likes Sweet Potato and Squash but so does the dog. Bananas are good but they give her man-farts.

To hell with it. I may just give her cheesecake and see if that fills her up.

Calpol, colds, dribbles and nibbles

Lucy recently had a nasty cold. Which she very kindly gave to me. Only I got an even nastier version and still had to take care of madam. You never get advice about taking care of a demanding, teething, ill baby while feeling like hell yourself. Of course when the health visitor came after Lucy was born I had to answer a leaflet with questions like "are you feeling suicidal?" in a classy attempt to curb post natal depression. But they don't ask these questions when you're five foot deep in tissues, smelly over active bowels (baby not me), stained in Calpol and using a Star Trek type device to literally suck snot out of a baby's nose....

I guess I am lucky that the louder Lucy farts and the squelchier the poo - the bigger her smile.

Like a moth to the flame burned by..well, the flame....

In Arizona the citronella candles in the garden were basically a grave yard for moths, flies and other totally innocent yet butt-ugly bugs.

OBVIOUSLY the scorpions, freako spiders and other poisonous desert crawlies were immune to the 'beauty of the light...' Do you know how hard it is to squash a BABY scorpion? Yet squash I did. For the sake of my own baby. I found it crawling from outside the TV which was dangerously close to the corridor from which my baby slept off of. Scorpions sting. Bark scorpions sting quite nastily. It ruined my romantic visions of a midnight swim in the pool I can tell you. But as we arrive home it is like arachniphobia. UGLY nasty spiders have weaved their webs everywhere, one even fell down on me in the car and it was so big that when I batted it away with my fist it felt like the size of a baseball. Or at least a cricket ball....

Those great big flying daddy long legs are nothing compared to an ugly spider. However,

If you wish to live and thrive
Let the spider run alive

They are meant to bring good luck. I must STOP squashing my good luck. Lucy doesn't seem to mind them....

I need a stage... like any pushy Mama.

Lucy is tricky at the mo. She fights sleep like a Stormtrooper against Chewy with wind.

She is also teething which doesn't help. I thought babies were supposed to teeth from 6 months. I can feel her little nashers as I apply "Calgel" with my finger that has stroked the dog, gardened and cleaned the car. Dear God.

Speaking of which Lucy is being Christened for various reasons I would rather not share or open debate to. Apart from of course her pretty dress which was a dry-cleaned bargain from Ebay. Her size 3 shoes were not. Brand new from Babies R Us in the USA.

Chip off the ol' giacantic-footed block.

Of all the things she had to inherit from me dammit...

I have seen her shot...so to speak

Lucy had her second immunisations on Wed. She didn't even cry. I would have cried if someone shot a needle into my thigh like that.

My Daughter is a hero. A breed of groovy braveness.

She is in the early stages of teething. A salvating, starving dog dribbles less. I got her something called a Gummy - a cross between a dummy and a teething ring. Seems to do the trick, if only she could hold it herself for longer than 8 seconds...

She is weaning at the moment, a little early but she is hungry and the formulas in the USA are packed with far too much iron, so on holiday I had to make sure she wasn't as constipated as an 80 year old on a diet of peanuts. She loves pears. Not so keen on apple. Must be kind of tart. The faces she pulls....

....the poos she pulls. Speaking of which, we were looking at houses to move to in the USA and there was a slight typo in one description - "...very large back yard, plenty of room for a poo."

Always a plus....

Not another Taco Bell....

Weird I should make reference to Steve Irwin in the last blog. Never really thought about the guy before and now through freak tragedy, a global nation of animal lovers and total hypocrites mourn his death. I never met the guy but if I can inject the same passion for something like wildlife that he did into his own children I will be doing something right. I'll try not to dangle my baby in front of a croc but when she is screaming endlessly, drawing on the walls or sticking a screw up her nose in the middle of the night that promise could be tricky...

We are on holiday in the USA where the choice of restaurants is as unlimited as the free refills that are derigour everywhere (unfortunately not on wine or beer.) How a nation can EAT so much is anyone's guess. How a nation can THINK about food so often is beyond me. But it is catchy...contagious even.

No wonder kids come bouncing out of schools like footballs. It is cheaper to munch on Taco Bell daily than have a packed lunch.

If we move here the difference for my baby will be the temperatures. Arizona heat means even the most hardy have to take a swim in the pool, sweat like a beast and at some point during their stay run screaming from a scorpion.

Just sleeping with one eye open over the baby's crib for fear of the desert creepies is enough to keep you slim -or hungry for a midnight snack....

....please join me in what Taco Bell describes as the 4th meal. Chow down nation. Chow down.

Fear and Loathing In Las Chelmsford

When you have a new baby you look at it with awe. You feed baby at crazy hours, you change baby's nappies 900 times a day (just in case the dreaded nappy rash appears). Even if baby looks nothing like you, but proudly resembles the spit of your husband, you hold her close to you like Gold.

Suddenly it is no longer a new baby. She has grown. She has opened her eyes and can smile and watch you and laugh.....

....and the wibbly wobbly head is no more. Although things are still slightly unsteady, even when she is as angry as a croc with Steve Irwin waving madly in front, she still manages a grin and a laugh. In fact, everytime she sees me, she smiles and tries to tell me a tale. She is happy for no other reason other than Mother Nature tells her to be.

And that is why being mother is the most terrifyingly, beautiful thing ever....

.....touch a hair on her head and Jackie Chan would look lame compared to Mama. Wimpy even.

Dribble goo goo names

It is funny how many 'endearing' names you can conjure for your baby.

Ours has been known as Lucy Loo, Mrs Boo, Lulu Piccachu, LuLeeBoo, Little Angel and Cuddlebug (sometimes Cuddleboo).

God forbid she ends up with one of these through life and gets bullied at school. I try to say Lucy at least once a day. She's a clever kid. I worry it is her reference for bottle or I have a pooey arse. But hey, it brings a large smile. Surely your name should bring a smile? Unless it is Rusty. Or Skippy. Or Jim.

The worst thing being a parent brings is (over) protectiveness. We fly to the USA next week. I would rather stick Lucy in an oven of hot coals. But you can't stop living your life.

And anyway I am ridiculously dangerous pushing her pram around. The bumps and ramps I attempt are just plain foolhardy. But one thing pushing Lucy around has taught me - I'll do anything for a bargain.

And so, it seems, would she.

Summer baby

Since the minute my baby was born she "brought the good weather with her.."

Meaning on occasion it has been hotter than hell since she was born. Usually I would sunbathe relentlessly and fry my skin to within an inch of its life, while filling the paddling pool I imported from America to the brim, ensuring optimum paddle.

But with a baby you just can't do that. You can't do much really apart from feed and change. The tide is turning though. She is growing quickly and there are lots of smiles, lots of red "push that poo" faces and lots of tears....plus she looks great in a dress. Something I have not mastered since giving birth.

But the damn cot. Cot assembly has the potential to cause divorce. World war. Fisty cuffs of the greatest degree....

Funny how the most successful people in the world struggle to manage the simple things.

Blair and Bush - you try putting together a cot. You won't be mates for much longer ...

Gripes...

Gripe water is something you give your baby to relieve wind and colic type symptoms....except no one really knows what colic is...

My baby doesn't cry relentlessly or unknowingly, she cries if she is hungry or needs a poo. In that respect she is good. But it doesn't mean she doesn't suffer from wind and struggle sometimes.

So a touch of gripe water after a feed settles her as best a baby can be. But the bottle for gripe water means you have to pour it through a teaspoon. Which means gripe water everywhere...on the bedclothes, on your clothes, on the baby, on the nightstand, on the dog - wherever you happen to be pouring it. At 3am gripe water can end up on your hair, on the pillow, on YOUR favourite stuffed toy...often you think to hell with it and have a spoon or two yourself. Gripe water smells like Pernod...aniceed. Brings back youthful memories I'd rather forget. At first Lucy really hated the taste. But the more I give it to her the more she seems to smile...

....keep her away from the Pernod.

OK...what's wrong?

As a first time momma it is hard to tell what ails a baby.

I am convinced she only cries if she is hungry or struggling for crap. Which she normally is.

BUT... nine times out of ten I get the two confused. I reckon I have done well to narrow potentials down to two.

In the hot weather baby upset is a whole different ballgame. She doesn't even know why she is crying.... is she thirsty? Is she hungry? Is she just plain hot and annoyed?

But the funny thing is there are so many times in her life she will wonder why she is crying, so maybe I should just let her practice. It will normally be because of a boy. But the only two boys in her life at the moment would religiously guard her moses basket or hold her loving whilst watching England play. Guess which one is the dog and which one is the daddy...

The best thing is seeing your baby smile....and knowing the difference between a windy poop smile and a real one. That's when you're a mamma. That's when you high five the dog - and realise you have a pretty cool dog...


...because he KNOWS why you are high fiving him.

Enter Sandman...

Nursery rhymes bring back memories...

I have this CD of nursery rhymes done instrumental chill out style to encourage sleep. It only really works on me...

I think the idea is you sing to your baby. One of the songs is called Brother John. I was taught it as Frere Jacques and I am not French...

Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques Dormez vous? Dormez vous? Sonnes les matines, sonnez les matines, Din, din, don. Din, din, don.

I was surprised to find an English version. How cosmopolitan am I?

Are you sleeping, are you sleeping? Brother John, Brother John, Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing Ding Ding Dong, Ding Ding Dong.

But the Dutch version is a classic...

Vader Jacob, Vader Jacob, Slaapt gij nog, slaapt gij nog, Alle klokken luiden, Alle klokken luiden, Bim, bam, bom, bim, bam, bom.

I don't know how you say it never mind SING it. Lucy Beth looked at me like I was an arse when I attempted to sing the dutch version.

I have decided singing this alone in a pub will be a dare for a hen night I am organising.

And some people think motherhood is dull...

Lucy B and Me

My daughter was born on May 29 2006 at 9.15pm by c-section after a long, fruitless labour. The worst and best day of my life together as one.

She weighed 8lbs and 7oz and is long and thin so my fears for a big baby were pointless. She looks tiny. I guess a baby really would have to weigh 13 stone and have the fat stores of a hippo before it was a mini-sumo.

The chair at the computer is the only one I can sit in comfortably after a major operation. In fact, I have just realised I forgot to take my pain killers.... I'll have to sit here until someone finds me and can hoist me up (place major swear words here).

My baby smells like a sweet, soft, angel which is amazing considering what appears in her nappy.

Lucy Beth is beautiful and she is perfect....and it is baffling...

...because she looks nothing like me.

Knowledge is power?

My mum is arriving this weekend from the USA. I think we were both hoping the baby would have come before she arrived so we could coo at it and buy clothes. Instead it looks like we will both be mooching around, playing the waiting game, me getting larger and larger and my my mum moaning about the rain and the price of miserable produce. One senario is that the baby arrives just as her flight touches down at Heathrow. My husband will have to make a choice between a cranky and jet-lagged mother in law or the birth of his first child. If this is the case, I think I will be giving birth alone...

For someone who has never been through it, I am very well educated on labour. If you find you go into labour unexpectedly give me a call. I'll sort it. This birthing genius is partly due to watching the freaky horrors the Discovery Channel airs 2 or 3 times a day. Did you know more women go into labour when the moon is full? This is due to the same reason as the pull on tides...women have so much water inside and it pulls in the same way. The next full moon is not for while so mine won't be a moon baby.

The difference between American produced birthing shows and UK produced ones are significant. In the UK pregnancy shows everyone is very calm and the programme gives no warning of disgusting scenes - giant heads appearing to poke out of butts, fainting women or abnormal birth defects like large eyeballs, growths on the buttcheek, one hand bigger than the other Jeremy Beadle style....

The US shows always have dramatic music and slow motion even if the only problem is the labouring woman is screaming for a glass of water. They always give a warning at the beginning suggesting you are settling down to watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre rather than new life come into the world. The women in the US shows always cry and look so happy to see their baby. In the UK shows they appear annoyed and look like they want a pint.

I'm starting to develop fantasies about giving birth in Tesco. The baby just gently slips out in the milk aisle to applause from fellow customers and in return for the local publicity Tesco give me a year's supply of chocolate cake.

I need to get a life.

Name Games

Geri Halliwell has named her baby Bluebell Madonna.

Mmmmmkay.

I myself want to avoid my child coming home from school with half an eye popping out of their socket, a bloody lip and wedgy so tight only pliars could undo it. In fact, if I knew someone at school with that name I would have been compelled to smack them myself. And I was a lovely child.

I think Ernest or Joy or Betty or Alfred are safe names. Jimmy is always everyone's friend or the school bully so no fear there. Jennifer is a nice safe plain name. There are various ways to spell it too - Jeni, Jenny, Jennie. Charles is a safe name, could be spiced up to Chuck. Chuck Eagle. He'll be an RAF man or an anchor man for US television news.

There are lots of girls names I like but they always have associations with other beings - usually soap characters I hate or loath. Chloe is a lovely named ruined by Sonia on Eastenders daughter - incidentally the baby she had no idea she was pregnant with and just fell out after a bit of wind. Sure.

Poppy, Daisy and Honey are sweet names over-associated with famous celebs kids. Actually, let's be honest - Honey is a dog's name. Summer is a groovy hippy type name associated with my favourite weather and unfortunately also a character from the O.C.....plus I'd have to wrestle my husband into unconsciousness before he would agree to it.

Hmmm.

Barry, Mary, Larry, Gary, Sherrie or Hyacinth it is then.

Moods

As I sink ever further into the abyss of late pregnancy and the hellish gates of Overduedom become a real destination, I get more and more irritated by everything....

David Blaine. What a self indulgent, humourless wanker he is. Why do people watch his dumb stunts? Because they are all hoping he will kick the bucket amidst one. He thinks it is because he is superhuman. Arse.

Big Brother. One season possibly two were interesting because of the newness and the mind numbing goldfish bowl appeal. But year after year they bring stupid, celebrity-greedy, shallow, unstable freaks in there to perform for the stupid, celebrity-hungry freaks that watch it. I cannot believe these people are given the time of day never mind air time. It's up there with the morning chav-chat shows as a great annoyance at the moment. I'm forced to sit there like Jabba and channel surf in the hope they all go away.

Droughts. In a tiny country surrounded by water where it has been pissing down for the best part of two weeks. Someone f*cked up there and it wasn't mother nature.

Everyone keeps asking me on a regular basis if I have had the baby yet. Of course I haven't had it. I would have broadcast it on ITN if I had. Never ask a 9 months+ pregnant woman if she has 'had her baby yet.' It could encourage her to rip it out of the belly Alien-style.

And women that have just delivered their lovely perfect babies annoy me most of all.

Nothing. Nowt. Nada.

Great timing. Just great.

I see the physio the same day as the midwife may attempt to get this show on the road. At best I will have about 4 hours of groin support via a sumo belt. At worse the kick start proves fruitless and I have the belt for a while longer. If that is the case I'll be knocking on the consultant's door on a bank holiday. I'll start a sit in protest if I have to and drink 27 cans of coke just to prove my point...

I'm guessing (wildly I'll admit, as scales have been off the agenda for months) this baby is 8lbs 2oz. No, 8lbs 4.5oz. And 22 inches long. Right now. This minute. So when it is born lightyears late it could easily be 10lbs and 2 foot. If it is any less than that I will be alarmed that my internal organs are so heavy.

Maybe wind is heavy. I guess placenta is heavy. Are belly buttons heavy?

The average weight and length of a baby is about 7.5 lbs and 20 inches. Baby boys are usually heavier than baby girls so I guess I'd better get the blue out. And maybe just a bit of pink to wear as a punishment for making me wait so long.

I could be a really mean Mum...

A Hot Plan

Someone slap Geri Halliwell.

In fact, no, let me do it.

She was 'rushed' to the Portland and had her baby a few days ago. Apparently she wanted a natural birth at a friend's house but 'due to complications' she had to have it in the Portland. What complications? It hurt? Women are not rushed to the Portland. They are booked weeks in advance when they choose what champagne breakfast they will have and what kind of tummy tuck they want after the planned c-section. She was originally due AFTER me. I no longer feel guilty for wanting to speed up the process - considering my screaming groin.

OK. OK... I want the Portland treatment too. Lucky bastards.

It turns out the midwife sympathises with my groin troubles and looked a little alarmed as I wobbled sumo-style into her office. She wanted to phone the physio then and there but I courageously said I would do it when I got home. When I got home I fell asleep....so the physio is still AWOL. It has been agreed I can't withstand much more of the anvil shaped bump so next week I get a 'sweep ' to encourage labour. I won't go into detail. You'll have to use your imagination. If this doesn't work I will see the consultant with a view to being induced asap. Not overly thrilled about that but I have a plan of my own in the meantime....

I found some hot sauce in the kitchen called 'Smack My Ass and Call Me Sally'. This was acquired by my husband on holiday somewhere and by all accounts it is evil. It has a warning for people with heart conditions not to touch it. It is the sort of sauce that if you get some on your fingers and accidently rub your eye - your eye melts...

So it may blow me and my baby to the moon, but at least we'll finally meet.

This must be what 80 feels like

Picture the famous scene in Star Wars where Jabba the Hut is draped on his throne surrounded by his minions.

That is me.

But the throne is actually a sofa and the minions are my dog and cat. And there is no sign of a bikini clad Princess. No sign of a bikini anywhere, ever again.

Movement is difficult now. Between crazy falls and giant bellies my groin can't support the strain. I walk like an 80 year old and stand like a sumo. Induction is on my list of questions for the midwife - who will probably tell me to be patient and have a curry, let nature take its course.

No. No more.

Nature has taken its course and given me slasher stretch marks, a butt like a space hopper, a gut like Santa, a scary comedy style fall, swollen limbs, a windy peanut sized stomach and an AWOL physio. If I go on for a further 4 weeks, which is possible if the baby is hideously late, I will be in a wheelchair. Channel 5 may do a documentary just about me.

"The 50 Stone Pregnant Woman "

It's time. It really is.

Wave goodbye to 37 long weeks...

Where the hell is this call from the physio? My buttcheek is killing me.

I actually fell asleep for a while last night and the heavy weight on one side has given me cramp in one buttock. Is that possible? I am tempted to just get a pregnancy girdle but by the time I have bought one and had it delivered the baby will probably have arrived. And anyway, I want my 'free' NHS one. I pay taxes. Well, I used to pay taxes.... My husband pays taxes.

I am organising a hen night due to take place one month after I give birth. If I give birth on time. Attendance could be tricky. Unless I am like a dairy cow and can pump enough milk for about 10 feeds. Or hide the baby in my handbag. Or perhaps the goody bag for the hen - I am sure the baby would have a great time rolling around amongst penis shaped shotglasses and crotchless underwear. It could play with the crawl-along-wind-up-willy.

Then we are due to attend the wedding which will also be interesting if the baby is late. Breastfeeding a 3 week old baby at a wedding when you're as clumsy as me could have unpleasant consequences for the guests. Nothing like a bit of breastmilk in the eye to strike up conversation.

Then I want to visit my parents who live a million miles away in a warm climate with a pool and everything a good holiday demands. But the baby will need a passport. And a photo...

How do you take a passport sized photo of a newborn baby? What if it is taken when the baby has a full head of curly ginger hair but when it travels this has been replaced by delicate blonde lockes?

I probably worry too much. I shouldn't worry about that, I'm not having Mick Hucknall's baby.

Practice does not make perfect

Braxton Hicks contractions are a totally pointless addition to the final days of pregnant misery.

They serve no purpose other than to make you feel like a beachball being inflated with the intention of bursting. Most pregnancy advice will mention these 'practice contractions' as a mild, painless and infrequent tightening of the uterus. They don't mean labour is imminent, they don't mean anything exciting is happening, they don't mean you will be a guru in labour, they don't even really mean 'practice' because real labour apparently feels quite different.

I get them all the time if I attempt to do anything that involves moving. They are not painless, they are very annoying and they probably mean that when I am in real labour I won't realise, be very annoyed with the whole thing and find my baby swinging between my legs while I hang out the washing.

I wish.

I guess I had better learn how to operate my Tens machine. The phrase 'can't be arsed' springs to mind but I will probably poke myself in the eye if I need it whilst still uneducated. Fiddling around with instructions and wires while in labour isn't ideal. I wouldn't want to send electrical currents through any body part that may object.

My high coke consumption continues despite the consequences. I thought yesterday the dog was genuinely competing with me until I realised he had what I call 'poopy bum' (use your imagination - he's a hairy dog) and I had to bathe him. This meant my sumo-self emerged again, hunched over the bath trying to avoid the flying crap. Now this is real practice.

I knew I shouldn't have fed the dog that grape.

Out in front

I have a friend who thinks he is addicted to diet coke. Thank goodness men can't get pregnant or he would explode into the universe. I have had 4 cans today which is a huge amount of fizzy liquid considering the peanut-sized stomach problem. Luckily it has turned into a beautiful warm evening so I can trump outside and avoid the need to walk away from myself or compete with the dog. The same friend works for a place called Gutshot and I have to say I think I am more suited to such employment at the moment - my gut is definitely shot...

...the midwife referred me to the physio - partly because of my dramatic fall, the likes of which are only seen in crappy shaggy dog movies -but mostly because I am carrying the baby waaaaaay out front. It's crushing my pelvis. It's creating slasher type stretch marks. It's compromising my dignity. I had to squat today to pick up some dropped change and looked like a sumo wrestler preparing in the ring.

The physio will examine my bruised and battered pelvis and if I am lucky, I will have a massage. If I am unlucky, I get a support belt to wear. To complete the sumo look.

Finds and Falls

I'm sitting here surrounded by a poo bin of the highest quality and some over-priced but treasured Chanel earrings. With a pelvis that may never do the twist again...

I fell yesterday in a spectacular fashion. A very large dog plowed into me from behind and because it was raining I went straight down on my back. No time for hands out, no time for a slow motion "Nooooooooooo" or even a squeak. Hurt like hell. I was convinced I may have cracked my pelvis - things were blurry for a minute, partly because I was seeing stars and partly because my own little dog was licking my face passionately. I don't know if he was ridiculously pleased to see me down at his level or loyally trying to revive me. I like to believe the latter.

Anyway, after about 40 minutes of rolling on the floor feeling sick in front of my horrified in-laws I was OK. The baby hiccuped non-stop and I suddenly realised - not even a terrible fall can bring on labour for me. Why am I bothering with curries and spikey fruit? Actually, it is probably no laughing matter - apart from the fresh green stains on my tracky bottom's butt that now blend in with the existing one.

I think I ruined one of my husband's work shirts in the fall. So today I have on an even finer one. And I am wearing Chanel earrings. I am seeing the midwife today. She will never believe I was the victim of a terrible accident yesterday. I'll have to wear the tracky bottoms as evidence.

If I could just move my pelvis I may be able to try out this poo bin. Not literally - the toilet works well for me - but there are lots of levers, wheels and plastic bags I can test out in preparation for that never-to-be-forgotten first poop. Better known as meconium. Or the Terror Turd.

Designer Panic

The Ebay addiction continues. I attempted bidding on a number of occasions for some Chanel earrings. I have always wanted them and now, that I don't go out or have any reason to wear them, I decide it is crucial that I have them. I may end up changing the nappies of a naked baby because I am too poor to buy it clothes - but I will look mighty fine in those earrings while I do it.

I was outbid a number of times and couldn't believe how much they went for. I panicked on one of my attempts and through a mix of sheer stupidity combined with ignorance for the Ebay process I manage to bid for 2 separate pairs. I won the original bid and spent the whole day hoping and praying that I was outbid for the second pair. Which I was. In fact, they are set to sell for significantly more than I paid for them in my bid. Sweet.

My husband is in the dark about today's events. I don't think he will appreciate the sheer beauty of these earrings until I am wearing them, perhaps on holiday, when he is drunk, England have won the world cup and I have won the lottery. That's when I'll tell him.

In other news, my stretch marks now ensure I resemble the star of a slasher film and I am more swollen than a pufferfish. I also learned that if you have trouble breastfeeding in hospital they have a supply of OTHER WOMEN'S BREASTMILK that you can use to sustain your baby until you get the hang of it. Ewy.

Who donates their breastmilk? Who has such a plentiful supply that they can afford to...

...I wonder if you get paid for it?

Curry in a hurry

We went for an Indian meal last night. I don't think mine was spicy enough. It has had no effect whatsoever. The food was very good but came a touch too quickly. We had eaten within half an hour and were back on the streets of chavsville which were filling up with townies ready for a night out. McDonalds now has bouncers on the doors.

We saw a fellow member of our parentcraft class in the restaurant. Turns out my husband remembered him from 10 years earlier when, in exactly the same place, fellow parentcraft class member got his arse out as his friends pulled his boxer shorts down. His baby is due a few weeks after ours. Could share the same class at school. I'll have to keep an eye on that.

I have taken to wearing my husband's work shirts. Why didn't I think of this before? All I need is a set of pearls and some slip on pumps and I look almost upper class. Of course the paint stained tracky bottoms ruin this ambition. Especially the one with the green thing on the butt. I can't get it off.

I am still waiting for delivery of my poo bin. Maybe the postman stole it.

Too much time

I am addicted to Ebay. I have to stop. After my 'win' on the poo bin I got a buzz and now I've put a bid in for a tower fan. My excuse is that the baby may boil if I don't have a state of the art fan. I am also rummaging around the house looking for anything to sell. A pair of flip flops, slightly chewed... an old unopened tin of paint, a butt ugly tie...some dvds I never watch. I wonder if anyone would buy scratchy loo roll?

I have too much time on my hands.

It is warm again today. Which is great. But my one summery maternity top is starting to smell. I decided against using a beach sarong as a skirt. Although it covers my girth, I just can't walk the dog in the park with that on. Not with granny knickers underneath.

I was going to go to Asda and fight the chavs for a very large man's work shirt to throw over my support tops in a summery fashion. But they just said on the radio that Jade Goody is 'wowing' the crowds today in town. I might give it miss.

Bring on the Pineapple

The midwife said today the baby has settled into the perfect position. Settled is the key word here. I hope there are no funny last minute maneuvers or ambitious dancing.... stay right where you are please. Unless, of course, you would like to meet. I can deal with that at a moments notice as long as I have time to pick up my exercise ball, breast pads, fan and 16 baby bags.

I bought a tin of pineapple in juice from Tesco today. Time to give up the double chocolate choc chip choco flake cakes. Legend states that pineapple can bring on labour.

I have just read that only fresh pineapple can bring on labour. Damn.

Sex is also said to trigger labour. There are hormones in semen that mimick the hormones that start labour. Apparently these hormones are better absorbed through the stomach. Forget it.

I have reflexology sessions every two weeks at the moment. This is supposed to help labour too. Although 5 minutes before my last session I had been walking around in the garden barefoot and then realised I had some weird yellow sticky foreign objects stuck to my heels and no amount of bathing could get them off. The reflexologist was a brave lady and never once asked why I was so late or why my feet had yellow puss marks on the bottom of them. The lesson here is - don't plant anything in your garden if you don't know what it does.

I am currently bidding on Ebay for a Tommee Tippee Nappy Wrapper Bin. Brand new I might add. There are some used ones on there but for GOODNESS SAKE....

That's up there with the used breast pumps in the 'no thank you ever' stakes. Who would want some other baby's plastic crap house?

Pert Skirts

The weather is nice today. I think the spring has been slow to come because the big man is being kind to me. He knows I don't want to bare an inch of flesh or buy another ugly-trying-to-be-trendy maternity item. Unless it's big pants. I have become accustomed to granny pants.

So my collection of 5 pairs of tracky bottoms are too warm today. And I just realised 3 out of the 5 have paint all over them. And one has some weird green thing on the butt. I must look homeless. They are all so overstretched and overworn that unless they have that tightness from a fresh wash which lasts approximately 3 minutes they fall off! I have to hold them up. I have some 'nice' maternity trousers but the elastic waistbands hurt. I refuse to add to the pain. I don't have any little maternity skirts and I don't want any. My swollen legs look like freshly grilled sausages. And my rear is as big as my bump. I guess that is to balance things out so I don't fall over.

So in summary, today I am hot. Maybe I'll just sit in the garden in my granny pants and support vest. I'll need to be careful though. My 80 year old father in law who lives about 3 steps away from us has a habit of just letting himself in or appearing in the garden. I don't want him to think his son married Rab C Nesbit.

Ebay errors

We are currently selling a pair of my husband's once-used golf shoes on Ebay along with a fine set of golf balls. After purchasing all the gear and one nasty day on the course he decided it wasn't for him. I wasn't sure who would actually buy a used pair of shoes but I made sure the picture had them at their sparkling best and picked off all the hay and weeds stuck to the fluffy insides. Now, in the final moments, there is a bidding war for these babies... if we are lucky we will collect over £7 in profit for them. That will almost buy me 2 pairs of plastic nipple shields.

I have been looking at some of the other things for sale in the baby section on Ebay. I like the idea of a breast pump but even with all my advanced purchases, there are some things you really do need to wait to buy. There are a fair few pumps listed but who the HELL would want a USED breast pump? Nobody by the look of the lack of bidding for them. So, who the HELL would think they could actually sell a USED breast pump? Some folks try the 'Nearly New' label but even that suggests it has been pre-pumped with someone else's motherfeed....

I wonder if I could sell my giant maternity pants when I have finished with them. "One pair of used giant maternity pants for sale. No marks. Nicely white. Bidding starts at 60p..."

Watching the ceiling

They say sleep is difficult during pregnancy. At this stage, for me, it is impossible. I can't lie on my left side, I can't lie on my right side and I can't lie on my back. The only way I can rest is upright and I must look like the living dead sitting in the dark in that position. I have managed to rally up about 47 extra pillows though so tonight may be different. Where all these pillows came from is a mystery, some of them are rubbish - stuffed with the equivalent of 3 cotton balls - but some are good and together as a collective supporting my enormous but weak frame I may get a decent sleep. Where my husband will fit into all of this cushy paradise I am not sure. Could be another night of one foot on the floor for him.

Anyway, as labour nears the baby drops further into the pelvis in preparation. I think this has happened to me - mostly because whenever the baby hiccups it feels like my fanny is laughing.

Looks and Books

I sat in the sun today for about 32 seconds but I look like I sat in the sun for 32 hours. I have found a plus point - getting tan when your pregnant is easy. It's probably God's way of ensuring us sun-worshipping idiots don't bake our babies in the womb.

There are other plus points - I have long nails for the first time in my life and my hair is in excellent condition.... But for many, looks go downhill the further on in pregnancy you get. Every inch of you eventually ends up swollen. Spots appear, sometimes in places I'd rather not discuss and I have already touched upon the joys of stretchmarks. In the first few months you have a nice bump that you proudly swing around to anyone that will look. From about 8 months though this perfectly shaped bump turns into a lump, almost a ledge, with a peculiar anvil shape to it. This normally co-incides with a heavy pain constantly threatening to crush your pelvis. And that swing turns into a waddle.

This is when you have had enough.

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. Some ladies keep their pert little bumps until the day they hatch - but they usually appear on the cover of Hola! and have tummy tucks after their c-sections.

Or maybe it's just me with the anvil shaped gut. Either way the word 'blooming' can only really be used for 2 weeks out of the 40.

I have been reading up on birth and babies and if the advice the books give is to be adhered to, the future looks bleak and sleepless for me. I can't get my dog into a feeding routine or potty train it, never mind a kid. Even my cat sits on my head meowing every morning at six and I give in to her hungry demands. The Contented Little Baby Book would have me hang my head in shame at this lack of discipline.

First Time Parents is a book that states the obvious and tries to illustrate it without an inch of originality. One photo in the Labour and Birth Chapter shows a woman slightly sweaty, giddy with laughter, legs akimbo, fanny out and brand new naked baby in her arms. Behind her is her husband who leans casually against her shoulders winking at the camera and grinning like jerk. Never have I seen a more staged photograph.

I wonder if Tom and 'Kate' have a photo like that in their collection...

Mystery Solved

I placed a Betterware order today. Isn't that what mothers do? Actually, the more I think about it - isn't that what Grandmothers do?

Anyway as I am sure all Betterware purchases are, it was fairly exciting - some strips to stick on the sofa to prevent the cat scratching and a set of mini plastic drawers to tidy the desk that will probably come in more handy as a make-up tidy. There were about 762 other things in the catalogue I thought I couldn't live without but wasn't sure the circumstance would ever arise to use them. The spider catcher that doesn't kill, or the fly strips for the wall... I was tempted by the plastic toe separators and bunion treatment that Gloria Hunniford so convincingly advertises, but I'll have to save that treat for another day. Now I have to wait 10-14 days for my delights. All I do is wait these days.

I cooked dinner last night for a friend. Which meant that my frequent-but-carefully-spaced-out sessions of eating peanut butter and jam sandwiches would have to be dropped for a full on meal. When you're this pregnant the stomach shrinks to the size of a peanut, not because you suddenly become a dainty little flower, but because it is well and truly SQUASHED. So we ate like kings (obviously my cooking is magnificent...) and topped it off with a fresh flake chocolate cake. I bought this from Tesco and it was pretty expensive by their standards so you can imagine the size of the pieces and the belly-pats of satisfaction - from everyone else at the table anyway. It has been a while since I have been sociable and sat at a dinner table (lack of being able to drink can make a person grouchy on social occasions) so as I chatted away I forgot I had a stomach the size of a peanut and ate like a horse. This, combined with the consumption of some seriously fizzy soft drinks meant I thought I would roll onto the floor and explode. Where the hell is that IBS book? (see previous)

Then it hit me....

The reason sometimes I feel (and look) ridiculously pregnant is not because I am having the world's biggest baby. Perhaps not even that I am carrying 16 stone worth of fat on my gut....It is because I am bloated like a whale! The acid is filling my peanut sized stomach and stretching it beyond belief. Particularly with the consumption of fizzy drinks. I am actually full to the brim with wind. I could probably power a town. This realisation also solves the labour pain relief dilemma -

I can just fart this baby out.

United we stand?

I was shopping in Mothercare today. I go in there quite frequently if I am in town, mostly because I think I should. I have already bought nearly every single item they sell so most of the time I don't actually need anything. In fact strictly speaking I don't have any children so I shouldn't really NEED any of their products...yet. But as time ticks on and that due date (probably overdue date) creeps ever nearer I wander around Mothercare in the hope I can justify yet another purchase.

Today it was a baby bag.

In truth you could just use a rucksack or a normal big bag but where is the fun in that? I already bought a 'designer' baby bag through the Internet and when it arrived it was cute, but it seemed small. Very small for the 82 nappies, 76 bottles and 476 poops I have been told you end up lugging around. It comes with a matching changing pad but even this seems small. Unless you change one cheek at a time. Or have a midget. So I bought ANOTHER baby bag, much bigger, slightly uglier (plain black) and very practical. I don't think you can really be cool with babies. Practicality wins every time. Plus now I have a bag for every occasion.

With this purchase in mind I wanted something for me, moi, myself... so I bought a summer maternity top in the kind of style I can probably get away with wearing well after the birth. Actually, who am I kidding? I will be wearing all my maternity clothes well after the birth. I wonder if I can con people into thinking I am pregnant again rather just a blubber butt?

I went to the checkout and it was busy with one of those queues that is really just a bunch of random, scattered people - the kind where you get there and think 'Is there a queue...?' So I asked a lady with a toddler in a pushchair if she was waiting and she said 'Yes' in a tone that really meant 'Step in front of me and I will rip your face off.' At best, she was rude. I thought all of us in Mothercare were mothers united, all bonded together with similar experiences and love. At the very least those with screaming kids may remember what it was like to be almost 9 months pregnant.... I was wrong. At that point a saleslady appeared from nowhere and asked if someone would like to accompany her to the other till. I was next to her in a flash. Mrs Rude could wait in her beloved queue...

As a plus point the saleslady pointed out that if I buy one maternity top I get another half price. I said I am nearly there now and just wanted this one for warm days. She asked how long I had left and when I told her she looked surprised. I could have kissed her. What a change from Lady Chav (see previous).

In other news today.... the gossip columns are reporting that Tom Cruise has 'changed Katie's name' which actually means he has decided that Katie is a young girls name and Kate is the name of a mother. And so that is what he will call her. What an arse wipe he is.

Enough

What self indulgent moaning this is. I will try to stop whinging about pregnancy now. Particularly considering so many people desperately want children and can't have them. And the fact I have yet to shake hands with my little one. My much wanted little one.

It's not that bad... just the final few months.

There are more important things going on in the world than labour craps and stretch marks. John Prescott actually managed an affair for godsakes. Ruminate on that one...

What the???!

I had a slight itching on the belly last night and awoke to find stretch marks. I was so proud of the fact I had none and here they appear in the last hellish month of pregnancy, the bastards. How can they appear in less than 24 hours? They are only small but give it time...

Pregnancy stretch marks make you look like your belly was sewn to your pelvis. Like Frankenstein.

Reassurance is a wonderful thing

I have a friend who has a friend (that sounds ridiculous) who had her first baby this morning. After a long complicated labour. The baby was sideways - ended up in a C-section. To complete the picture, the baby weighed almost 9 pounds.

Lordy.

Not that large...

It has just occured to me a reader of these blogs may think I was one big lard lady even before pregnancy. I wasn't. Honestly. Well, I was never a stick but...the reality is (perhaps because of the amazing and special outcome) pregnancy itself can just be cruel.

I dread my post-labour deflated skin and jelly butt....

Weight Watchers subscription at the ready...

"No more IBS!"

"Emotional Healing in Minutes"

"Start Up & Run Your Own Business..."

...these are some of the titles screaming at me from my bookshelf. Have I ever read them? No. Well, not really. I probably should some day. Just to ensure I am emotionally healed while running my own business. The IBS book would probably come in handy for that crapping part of labour.

Today I ate three peanut butter and jelly (jam) sandwiches, two chocolate chip cookies (of the larger size), a large bowl of cereal and some pea soup. Oh...and a Twirl. Not necessarily in that order. I walked about five feet with the dog and then had to come home. I am not sure if this is pregnancy laziness or incredible fatness taking hold. Either way I think a Weight Watchers regime and exercise is called for this summer - If I can participate in both while breast feeding and cleaning up poo (hopefully just the baby's).

We purchased a cross trainer just before I found out I was pregnant - so its assembly was put on hold. And now we find that in our haste to tidy things up after major building works, we tidied away the assembly instructions. Marvellous.

"Someone from my work had a 13 pound baby..."

...why does everyone feel the need to tell me about birthing horrors?

The midwife measured the bump last week and declared it is a totally normal size. Indeed. So why does everyone look at me like I am the size of a sumo wrestler?

When total strangers ask me how long I have left, the answer "a month" leaves them wide-eyed. One fellow pregnant 'lady' asked me this in Boots and when I told her, she turned to what I assume was her partner and said "Fuckin hell, she is bigger than me!" She had two weeks to go. But she was embarrassed at her outburst. Wouldn't look me in the eye. Judging by the gold strangling her fake tanned neck, I'd say she was a total pikey. Complete chavette. I hope she goes overdue.

Needless to say I have a fear of squeezing out a toddler. I was hoping for a baby first.

8 Months and counting

With a gut larger than your average pub darts player it is a bit tricky to sit and blog...but I have nothing better to do at the moment.

Did you know there is a very good chance of crapping during labour? And this chance increases if your pregnancy is overdue? Is that not just cruel icing on the cake of pain...you spend most of your pregnancy struggling to do one, then when you really REALLY don't want to - there it is. For all to see.

Still it could be worse. I could be Katie Holmes.