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.