The Worrying Lack of Poo.

Six days to go!!! I can almost feel myself wanting to burst into my own version of the ‘Carlton Dance’ (if a little uncoordinated and less choreographed). I have just had my appointment with the midwife. My heart hoped she’d say “we’re good to go”, waving some kind of magic wand, breaking my waters, et voilá, we’ll have our baby in time for the bank holiday weekend. Yet my head, being far too practical for its own good, predicted we’ll still be sat here beached on the settee in two weeks, twiddling our thumbs. It wasn’t so bad. We’ve booked in an appointment for a ‘sweep’ a week tomorrow. I’ve seen this on ‘One Born Every Minute’. Sounds to me like they should change the term to something along the lines of a ‘scrape’ judging by the screams of some of the women on there. Pain aside, this should get the ball rolling!

For the past few weeks, Alex and I have been avoiding visiting anywhere where there’s a likelihood of crowds; after all, we don’t want a squashed ‘Splodge’ (our pet name for Cowland Junior). This weekend however, we took a risk and went to the Haworth 1940s weekend, in the hope that walking up and down Main Street a few times would loosen things up and get things moving. No such luck. We did get really good spots to watch all the things going on throughout the village though. No one wants to get in the way of a massive pregnant lady! We also visited our favorite local ‘Boyce’s Barrel’, where I began to contemplate life after the birth, and booked my first gig since February. Hopefully this time I won’t feel the need to vom’ after singing that Alicia Keys song.

Now time for another moan. For some reason (I think I get it from my mother), I’ve always been massively interested in ‘the brown stuff’. Number twos. Poo. Shit. As a child I took great delight in designing charts using Word Art to stick to the bathroom wall for family and guests to fill in when they’d ‘been’, even including sections for them to illustrate the shape and consistency of their product. I don’t know what it is about it that gets me going so much. All I know is there’s nothing funnier than a joke about a turd! I’ve always been very regular. Few things please me more than a bit of alone time, reading Private Eye on the loo. This is why I’m so distressed about the irregularity of these occurrences of late. I’ve decided enough’s enough and have made the decision to stop taking the iron tablets I’ve been prescribed. Hopefully this way, I’ll become more regular and have the bonus of having to take afternoon naps ‘to preserve energy’.  For now though, I continue to swig the laxatives I demanded poor Alex go to the pharmacy for. Thanks babe, I owe you!

Advertisements

First blog. First baby. First stretch mark.

In what seems like an eternity, we’ve reached the ’38 week’ mark. Our first bundle of joy will be gracing us with his/her presence in less than two weeks time (hopefully). I’ve finished work for nine months, urges to vacuum are in full swing, the compulsory ‘bewildered new mother’ first blog post has been written, and the head’s way down; we’re all set for launch. Bring on parenthood!

It needs to come out now. The cute butterfly flutterings have now evolved into violent attacks. The iron supplements poison me with crippling constipation. And my boobs just…aren’t what they were. As if these things weren’t punishing enough, I was greeted on Friday morning with the appearance of my first stretch mark. Since then ‘it’ has turned into ‘they’, and insist on multiplying daily. Needless to say, I spend my precious alone time lathering myself in oils, body butters, and moisturisers in the hope that I’ll wake up the next day and they’ll have gone. Fat chance. So here I am bidding a “bon voyage” to my ‘bikini days’. Instead I shall focus on recreating the ‘Kate Middleton blow dry’, and staining my skin a mucky orange colour in an attempt to divert my attentions away from said stretch marks.

Another niggle: why are people so willing to share their traumatic birth stories? It seems they can’t wait to divulge experiences of stitches, blood, and shit. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m well aware it’s going to be the most undignified time of my life. You can’t possibly make me dread the experience any more than I already am doing. Save it! Naively attempting to rid my mind of these negative thoughts, I picked up a book on Hypnobirthing after several recommendations from my ‘yummy mummy’ friends. The opening sentence: “Peace on earth starts with birth.” Bollocks. Needless to say I can already predict this hippy dippy preaching isn’t for me. Nor can I even begin to imagine Alex whispering its flowery mantras of ‘babbling brooks’ and ‘opening roses’ in my ear as my eyeballs roll in my head as I enter into some outer-body experience.

So there we have it: my first blog. It’s going to be a place of honesty; stitches, blood, shit and all!