She's here!

40 weeks +4 days

Nine months and four days after two blue lines showed up on that little white stick N made her way into the world courtesy of Watford General Hospital. You've read the tabloid headlines about the woeful state of the maternity services in this country, well I'm going to tell you a positive birth story.

N arrived with little fuss and bother, (er, relatively speaking, that is). Contractions started at 1.24am, got fairly consistent and particularly uncomfortable by about 4am, and oh-my-god-that-hurts by 5am. My waters broke on the hall floor as we were leaving for the hospital, and again in the car on arrival (it had to be my car, didn't it). "Wheelchair!" I gasped when we got there, "Get a wheelchair, I can't possibly walk." No can do, said the midwives, who instead came down and walked me up to the ward.

It Was The Longest Walk of My Life. Enough said.

I heaved myself onto the bed and, and as the midwive got ready to examine me. I thought, God, PLEASE let me be a few cm dilated, if I'm not I will DIE

"Ooh," says Claire, my lovely midwife, you're already 8 cm.

Hurrah!

Then, utterly without shame, I begin to BEG:
"Drugs! Give me drugs!"
"What sort of drugs would you like?" asks Claire
"Anything. I don't care. Just inject me with something," I wailed.
"Well," explains Claire, "it does say in your birth plan that you only want gas and air."
Birth plan? Sod the effing birth plan. Just. Give. Me. Drugs.
But they (Claire and my husband) persuaded me to try gas and air and somehow, god knows how, I forgot about the harder drugs.
Contractions continued in full flow and I coped by breathing heavily, closing my eyes and zoning out. Quite out of character, I was remarkably silent.
It's a shame that the same couldn't be said for the wailing woman in the next room, who was intent on turning her labouring experience into an opera.
This was most distracting, and, given that I had arrived at what they call "transition" – the point in labour where women are apt to swear loudly at everyone in the room – I remember saying: "Someone get that woman to shut the f*** up!"
So they put a CD of singing dolphins on.

I'm in the water at this point, having suddenly remembered that I wanted a water birth, and I'm pushing and pushing, exhausted by my efforts and asking "can't you just yank it out of there?". Meanwhile, it's all gone quiet next door. Has the baby been born? Has she passed out? Gulp.

Husband had been primed for weeks beforehand to utter encouraging words and administer massage – but not just any massage, oh no, certain strokes at certain times on certain areas on the back. So, when the time came, he told me "great job!", "hang in there" and I, in no uncertain terms, told him to Shut the F*** Up. He bravely continued with attempts at the massaging that I had gone on about for weeks, and I very ungratefully brushed him off. Instead, he responded to my demands for gas and air and pressing a cold flannel on my forehead every few minutes. And I remember thinking, God, you bloody men have got NO IDEA what this is like.

Then, at 8.17am the baby that I had been convinced was a boy for 9 months arrived and the midwife cried:
"It's a girl!"
"Oh!" I said, and held her in my arms, thinking WOW – The rest of my life starts here.

They think it's all over. It nearly is now

39 weeks

Seven days to go.

I am trying to think of good song lyrics to sum up the occasion. "And now.." sings Frank Sinatra... "the end is near; and so I face the final curtain" is an excellent example. The trouble is, all that plays in my head is the music from Countdown, "pepop, pepop, pedelepop.
Pow!"

I can feel the collective weight of anticipation from friends and family. I know that I am not far from their thoughts and their fingers are itching to pick up the phone to ask: "Any twinges/action/pain/news?" I can feel them thinking "I CAN'T ring her again just yet. It's only been ten minutes." And if they leave it a couple of days they start to panic and think, "surely

SOMETHING has happened in the last couple of days? I'll give her a ring/text/email"

I move around VERY slowly. I amble from side to side with a look of intense concentration on my face. I have realised that I haven't a hope in hell of remaining inconspicuous. Because people stare. The women look and think "poor cow" or "how the hell did she get that big?" Men stare and a look of abject fear flashes across their faces. It's obvious what they're thinking, "Christ, got to get out of here, that thing's about to blow."

I am capable of very little. I can probably fashion around three semi-intelligent thoughts a day. Possibly string a couple of sentences together if pushed. If I do end up doing anything, it takes me ten times as long as normal. BabyG has taken up every last brain cell and this is not helped by the fact that I am entering my 27th poor night of sleep in a row. For all I know, these blogs are the ramblings of a madwoman and none of you has got the guts to tell me.

It amuses me that for nine months I haven't been able to so much as sniff an aspirin tablet and yet in a week or so I may well be given enough drugs to tranquilise a horse. This thought sustains me: When it's all over, you'll find me weary and delighted clutching the baby in
one hand and a cool glass of Prosecco that I have been looking forward to for nine months in the other.

Losing the plot

37 weeks

There are many myths and old wive's tales surrounding pregnancy which as a pregnant person you navigate your way around by applying a little bit of common sense.

However, there is one particular pregnancy cliché that is painfully true. You really do lose your brain.

I have lost count of the number of times I have left the grill on. Sometimes it's after the food has been cooked and taken out. Other times with food still in it. Consequently, our cuisine has taken on a distinctly charcoal-based flavour recently.

Last night I left the oven on. The previous day the smoke alarm battery conked out and I forgot, while out shopping, to buy replacements. And it's not as if I even realise I've done these
things. It's always Husband that notices the digression. When he discovered that I had both forgotten to buy new batteries for the smoke alarm and left the oven on in the same day he was distinctly unimpressed. I think he is beginning to fear for his life. This is not helped by the fact that whilst out driving the other day I nearly ploughed through a pedestrian crossing. I think he wishes he had those dual brake thingys in my car the way driving instructors do.

I regularly enter rooms only to stand there and think: "Um, why did I come in here?". I have become an avid list writer. Even if I only need three things, I will only remember one of them by the time I get to the shop. The slight snag in trying to be organised in this way is that you a) have to remember where you put the list and b) remember to take it out with you when you go shopping. I don't think I need to go into my success rate on these fronts.

And for the love of God please don't ask me to make a decision about anything. It takes me so long to understand the question that I've forgotten what it is I'm being asked to make a decision about in the first place.

When I speak to other mothers who have already got babies they can't help telling me delightedly that "It never comes back". By which they mean that the mother's brain power is irrevocably diminished, and they're very glad that another woman has joined the ditziness ranks.

Even my sister Nancy who, aside from Husband, is meant to be my staunchest ally and defender commented in not so many words at the end of our phone conversation: "I don't know what's happened to you," she says, laughing, "But you used to be so bright and articulate."

Time is Running Out

37 weeks

3 weeks and one day to go until BabyG day. This period is known in medical-speak as "Anytime Now Folks". So from now on, every abdominal twinge, every backache becomes a "Oh God! is this it? Was that the start of a contraction?"

Despite having attended two very informative antenatal classes I have to admit that as first-time parents we remain pretty damn clueless as to what to expect. Husband nags me to get my hospital bag finished so we're not caught on the hop, and jumps on the phone tracking me down if I'm out longer than usual doing the shopping (simple explanation for my tardiness: I made the elementary mistake of going to Tesco's on a Saturday...or was it just Krispy Kreme counter was busy? Ahem).

We've plugged every conceivable hospital number into our phones, and I have every conceivable phone number for Husband plugged into my phone. I've just realised, though, that I just called him to talk about the water bill (yes, my life really is that exciting) only he was in a meeting so I left a message. He is likely to think this is "the call" and race to the phone in a panic. Oops. Perhaps I should lay off ringing him at work for a while....

Various things preoccupy me, like the fact that I like to indulge in nice warm baths to soothe my aching legs but what if my waters break in the bath and I don't notice? Oh, and while we're on the subject of my legs, my "cankles" have now become "knankles", i.e. I now have swelling from the knees down to podgy little toes. Mercifully, thanks to the size of my bump I am unable to see my legs most of the time.

Meanwhile, I'm obsessed with the position of the baby. It's supposed to be head down, with its spine to the left and limbs to the right. I spend an inordinate amount of time lying on my left-hand side to encourage BabyG to get in the right position. I poke and I prod trying to figure out how the baby is lying. I talk to BabyG to encourage him to do Mummy a favour and get in the right position. Husband and I have daily conversations based entirely on the subject of whether my bump is higher or lower than the day before (lower is a good sign that the baby is "engaged").

BabyG, meanwhile, adjusts his position approximately, ooh, ten times a day. Some days he lies lower, making us think that the head is engaged. Then before you know it he has has popped back up again. One morning he kicks on the left, by the afternoon he's kicking on the right.

I am not convinced that BabyG has any intention of coming out at all.

Gulp

37 weeks

Oh. My. God.

It's October,

the

BIRTH

Month...

To Peanut or not to Peanut?

36 weeks

Whilst the medical advances and breakthroughs over the last generation is something to be grateful for, you can't help but think that as far as pregnancy goes, it all gets a bit much.

At the beginning of my pregnancy the accepted advice was that alcohol, in small amounts and in moderation, would be unlikely to harm the baby. Phew, says me, I can enjoy that bottle of Corona on a stifling hot day without going to purgatory. Half way through the pregnancy, however, we're told that all alcohol is bad and you shouldn't touch a drop while pregnant. Oh God, says me, what about that night we went out with Kate and Andrew and got royally drunk on Guinness when I didn't even know I was pregnant. Oh, the guilt. Dare I mention it to the midwife or will they get straight onto social services?

Meanwhile, the rise in the number of peanut allergy sufferers had been laid squarely at the feet of mothers who scoffed too many packets of Nobby's Nuts in the run up to giving birth. As a result, the jar of beloved peanut butter in our cupboard was summarily dispensed with never to be seen again. Today I read a story saying that eating peanuts while pregnant can actually AVOID the baby developing a peanut allergy. So now I've to up and hoof it to the local Spa to restock the cupboard with peanut butter and can worry that by NOT eating peanuts I've set my child up for a lifetime of peanut allergy.

The thing is, how are you supposed to keep track? Do people not realise that a pregnant woman's brain shrinks in equal proportions to the expansion of her bump? My conversation these days is punctuated mostly with: "Did I?", "Did we?" "Oh, I can't remember" and "um...." accompanied by a vacant expression.

Remember the butter and margarine debate that rumbled on for years? I can't even remember now which one is currently better for you.

With five weeks to go until due date it seems to me I have one tried-and-tested option left: cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Daily Movements

Despite all the books telling me that BabyG should be moving less and less now because he has less and less space, I am finding that this is not the case.

Last week the midwife said to me: "Are you getting at least ten movements a day?" I looked at her in horror thinking: "Isn't ten bowel movements a day rather a lot?" before realising that she was referring to BabyG movements. "You're kidding" I said. "It's more like 100". BabyG still moves around so much that he has a new nickname – The Tambourine Man. But I'm still loving watching my bump as BabyG moves around and gets himself comfortable, even though his preferred timing is, approximately, 2am.

The thing is that BabyG has happened across a very closely guarded secret... MummyG is incredibly ticklish. And BabyG has discovered that if he wriggles about by her ribs she reacts with a giggle and a shifting in her seat. He has also discovered that if he kicks MummyG when she is least expecting it she'll jump in her seat and go "ooh". So I'll give you three guesses what he does in there all day?

And he's not the only one playing high jinks. Beloved sister, Nancy, and Husband have both had a great time tapping on the tummy until BabyG wakes up, laughing in delight when he does, getting bored within a few seconds then leaving MummyG to cope with the resultant kicking/tickling/shifting around. However, MummyG gets her own back, at least in Husband's case, because when BabyG launches into his latest tambourine routine MummyG need only roll over and give Husband a "spoon" cuddle, thus inflicting the full force of the percussion session onto Husband's back. Ha!

Conversation Starter

34 weeks

I heard on the radio the other day that complete strangers are apt to approach a heavily pregnant woman and touch her stomach, just like that, without paying mind to any notion of personal space. "How weird'" I thought. Followed by, "Thank God no one has done that to me yet." However, I have noticed that when you're very obviously pregnant people treat you differently. In the first instance, they automatically assume that you are a nice person: you get smiled at a lot, people seem to like to make eye contact, they hold doors open for you, help you with things to your car, engage in smalltalk, and I think: "Why can't society be like this all the time?". Secondly, it's an instant conversation starter, and the conversation always goes like this:

"When's it due?"
"Do you know what you're having?"
"Aaah"

Or sometimes, it goes like this:

We had a lady from the letting agent come round to inspect the flat, and just as I opened my mouth to say "Hello!" she said:
"You're having a girl!"
"Oh" I said. "Most people have told me I'm having a boy," I said.
"Oooh no" said she. "A boy is a small, neat bump. But you're carrying yours all around your hips and bum."
"Oh" I said, looking down. She then went about her business, and after a few moments it dawned on me: "Did she just call me fat?"

The Nursery

33 weeks

With less than 7 weeks to go until D-day (or should that be BabyG day) Husband and I have been hard at work preparing the nursery. We have the cot, changing unit and feeding chair installed, and have splashed out on some African-themed bedding and wall hangings. It's been our first taste of things to come, namely, BabyG = rapid emptying of bank account, but it's been fun and the nursery is nice and tidy and stocked with baby wipes, nappies and goodness knows what else.

Surveying our hard work the other day after we'd scrubbed and cleaned and washed and bleached and hung out to dry, Husband turned to me and said: "Well, that's the hard bit done, it's all down to you now."

Life's Swell

31 weeks

I am beginning to feel like a beach ball. Turn me on one side and you could easily roll me down a hill: one big round ball with little arms and legs waving about. My father says you can see me coming before I get round the corner. I am frightened that people are going to start calling me Alex "The Barrell" Gray.

I'm not just swelling at an alarming rate round the middle, my ankles are like slabs of meat with podgy little toes poking out. Apparently there's a term for this – "Cankles". The word attempts to capture the phenomenon of calves running straight into feet, ankles having completely disappeared. The fact that someone has actually come up with a name for it doesn't offer much comfort.

I've been suffering from "cankles" for a while but now the swelling has spread to my hands. Not only can I no longer wear my wedding ring, I am now also suffering, thanks to the swelling, from repetitive strain injury in my knuckles and wrists. People are going to think I'm an arthritic single mother. And it's pretty inconvenient for someone who does a lot of typing for a living.

What's the purpose of all this swelling? I can understand that BabyG needs plenty of cushioning around the belly but why hands and feet have to join in I have no idea. It's getting such an effort to lug this swollen body around that I am starting to entertain dark thoughts about stealing the little old lady across the road's mobility scooter that she rides to the shops in just to give my poor legs a break.

Remember Violet Beauregarde, from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory? She's the kid that blows up into a giant blueberry and has to be wheeled into the juicing room before she explodes. It's a story that's just a bit too close for comfort.

The World's Most Boring

There's no shortage of places to go to for advice when pregnant. In fact, there are at least a million books published on the subject, a million pages dedicated to the subject on the Internet and the stuff made of Old Wive's tales that you will hear about over and over again.

So one of the things you know years before your baby is even a twinkle in your eye is that you will undoubtedly suffer weird and wonderful food cravings. Expectant mothers wait and see whether it will be herrings with ice-cream, gherkins and jam, peanut butter with vanilla yoghurt or some such other wonderful concoction.

You can imagine my disappointment then to discover that I have the world's most boring food craving – fruit. Oh yes, apart from a brief interlude of wanting cheese and crisp sandwiches at around 10 weeks, I am obsessed with eating fruit. I can't get enough of the stuff. I spend at least half an hour each day preparing a mountainous fruit salad which doesn't last terribly long. And it's not like I'm craving some obscure fruit, just good old everyday supermarket-shelf fruit. I swear I must eat about ten pounds of the stuff every day.

So after watching last night's news bulletin on how what the mother eats during pregnancy affects their baby, I'm starting to worry that I am, in fact, going to give birth to a giant strawberry.

Sleep Academy

29 weeks

She's a clever thing, mother nature. Aside from the fact that I am managing to grow a whole human being inside of me (a bit mind-blowing in itself), mother nature has also put me on a mum-to-be training programme.

It started three months into the pregnancy: I began sleeping quite badly and only managing about one decent night in every four. Now, at nearly six-and-a-half months pregnant, it's gone down to about one decent night in every seven. By the ninth month I expect it to be around one decent night in every 30 days.

Unfortunately, Husband, by virtue of sharing the same bed and being somewhat of a light sleeper, has been thrust into the same sleep academy training programme as me whether he likes it or not, thanks to my thrashing around, kicking covers off, getting up at 2.30am and so on.

So what's mother nature up to? Well, getting us ready for when BabyG arrives, I think. Everyone knows that when the baby comes you get one decent night's sleep in well, every when-Grandma-offers-to-babysit-for-the-night. But even then, you're likely to be lying awake worrying that poor Grandma is being kept awake all night by your offspring.

So the things is, I'm not sure whether mother nature should have started her training sooner and perhaps put me on a more intensive course, because when BabyG actually gets here, realistically, we'll be getting about one decent night's sleep in every 18 years.

Ever Increasing Circles

It may seem odd, but you don't get bigger in pregnancy in the same way as you put on weight. You don't slowly change shape, the inches creeping up on you so that those who see you on a daily basis barely notice it happening. No siree. In my pregnancy I got to bed at night and wake up two inches bigger. It's as if BabyG sneaks out in the middle of night and loads up on cream cakes and and greasy fry-ups.
This morning, my mother's eyes flew wide open in alarm when she saw that Alex had gone to bed a certain size and had appeared the next morning an altogether different size. Husband, meanwhile, has been known to comment "Morning fat lass".
The thing is, I've still got three months to go. What am I going to look like if this rate of growth continues? Just how big am I going to get? And, more importantly – as it grows increasingly difficult to reach down to my feet – How The Hell Do I Get It Out?

Remember Me?

28 weeks

As my bump gets bigger (I'm now 28 weeks), I have had to get used to being upstaged by my own body. It reminds me of my wedding day when new husband and I were totally upstaged by a family of elephants during the official photos. Everybody stood dutifully around watching the photography, until some bright spark came down and told them that there was a family of elephants crossing the river in front of the lodge. You've never seen a place empty so fast. All that were left were me, new husband, the photographer and a plethora of abandoned G&Ts on the lawn.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the bump. Visitors, family mostly, fly immediately to the bump and engage in a meaningful but alas, totally one-sided, conversation. Then they prod, blow raspberries, kiss, stroke, and rub the bump. BabyG on the other hand, as readers of previous blogs will know, ignores them completely.

The thing is, to me this is still just my stomach. Albeit my stomach with something the size of a beach ball in it. I doubt anyone would have entertained the thought of blowing raspberries or kissing my stomach beforehand. And what's with the rubbing? Do they think there's a genie in there or something?
I stand and smile indulgently at this carry on, but sometimes I feel like saying, "Hi, remember me? I used to be somebody."

Run a marathon while pregnant?

25 weeks

They call it RLS for short. Its long form sums up the disorder nicely – Restless Leg Syndrome.

Curiously – and somewhat annoyingly – it only happens at night. Your legs take on a life of their own and insist on moving every few seconds. At best you become fidgety, at worst you have to get up, but get this – it is not generally helped by moving, stretching, or going for a walk. In other words, there's not much you can do about it. Sometimes you fall asleep with it, but then your bed partner suffers night-time spousal abuse by being continuously kicked and woken in the night.

There's talk of a link between it and your diet but who's got the time to do a laborious food and restless-leg-syndrome diary every day for three weeks to see if there is any truth in the matter? It's one of those we-know-it-happens-to-pregnant-women-but-we-haven't-a-clue-why type things. Still, it's not all bad. I must be using up loads of calories, right? I mean, when it gets really bad I practically run a marathon in my sleep.

This morning, I was fast asleep when RLS reared its ugly head – a violent kick of my left leg ensued which woke me. Alas, I wasn't the only victim. Oscar, the cat, had little inkling when he curled up on my leg to sleep that night that he was in grave mortal danger. All I heard was a "miiiaaaooow!" as the poor thing got propelled across the room... Oops.

Hormones on the Loose

24 weeks

We have finally landed back in Blighty after a gruelling 13 hour journey – it has taken BabyG and me two full days to recover. Spent a blissful week with husband before waving him off to his new job on Monday morning. I'm back at Mum and Dad's and husband is staying the week at accommodation provided by the new job. We will reunite Friday, and at some point, go househunting to find ourselves a rented property.

In his absence, I have noticed something rather quirky. Those of you who have read previous posts know that I have been prone to hormonal mood swings during the pregnancy. I've actually got off quite lightly, IMHO, (although husband, I-grew-up-in-a-mostly-male-household-even-the-cat-is-a-bloke-so-haven't-a-clue-how-to-deal-with-hormones, may beg to differ). Anyway, I have noticed that whenever BabyG's father is absent I get a surge of hormones. I went away one weekend for a much looked forward to girlie weekend, and all I could think about was flying back into his arms.
After 12 hours of his most recent absence I say "I miss you" longingly down the phone. ("What, Already?" says husband); after 36 hours my bottom lip is quivering on a phone call and am having to resist the urge to say "Please, come home." And I think it's only going to get worse.

However, I think I have got to the bottom of it. The blame lays squarely at BabyG's feet. I think it's a primeval instinct from BabyG who knows that Daddy = provider = food + warmth + shelter (what he thinks Mummy's role is I'm not altogether sure. Mummy = nappy changer, I suppose). Upon not hearing Daddy's voice for a while, BabyG unleashes a surge of hormones in Mummy so great that she is bound to go find Daddy, bring him back and shackle him so that he does not disappear again. So Mummy pines for husband and is likely to be a gibbering wreck by the end of the week.

Daddy, as usual, remains unscathed by the whole affair.

Have stepped up the househunt.

I wonder who he takes after

23 weeks

I can tell my baby's personality and he's is not even out of the womb.
Let me explain.
BabyG is mischevious. I can feel him kicking, and so I hurriedly haul my husband's (or mother's/sister's/friend's) arm across, place their hand firmly on the site of the kicking and excitedly tell them that they are about to feel a kick.
So they wait, expectantly.
And I wait, expectantly.
And the clock ticks.
And we wait.
And as the seconds tick by I realise that I've made all this fuss, and precisely nothing is happening.
I shift slightly awkwardly in my seat. I am beginning to feel embarrassed.
BabyG meanwhile, can tell everything that is going on. After attracting attention through kicking in the first place, he leans back, places his arms behind his head and, with a wry smile, has absolutely no intention of kicking.
So I and husband/mother/sister/friend give up. I apologise and gabble: "he'll do it again soon, I'm sure!"
Then, as everyone gets back to what they were doing, BabyG languorously reaches his leg out and places a deft, carefully positioned foot and gives a good, firm kick.

Diet is "die" with a T

22 weeks

BabyG hasn't been so active these last few days.
Which of course has thrown me into a panic.
Have I been eating the wrong things? Have I been drinking enough water? Has that half glass of wine I had the other day had an adverse affect?
(The one thing I have learned quite early on in this pregnancy is that Motherhood = Permanent Guilt Trip.)
And, oh god, I read a story the other day about a woman who gave birth to a 15 pound baby (can you imagine), and apparently the baby was so big because the mother ate a high-sugar diet. And I've just realised that I've been eating a lot of biscuits recently. And the odd...er...chocolate bar. And yesterday I had a sticky toffee pudding.
Gulp.
Maybe BabyG isn't moving because HE IS TOO FAT

Blooming? Pah!

22 weeks

Thus far I have seriously doubted the 'blooming' phenomena that is supposed to accompany pregnancy. And here's why.
In the first three months, despite having escaped morning sickness, I still felt rough, and looked it too. Dark circles under the eyes, pale grey skin, the most awful wind and.. well, some things are best not sharing.
Now it's nearly three months on and I'm slightly less pale, but possibly only because I am now incredibly spotty. And I still have dark circles under the eyes. I keep reading about how I'm supposed to have glowing skin, luscious shiny hair, and be positively radiant. Er...

However, all is not lost! All my life I've had weak, brittle nails that split, bend and disappear at the mere whiff of nail varnish. All of a sudden I am blessed with the strongest, most gorgeous set of talons I've ever had! They're gorgeous, they're long, I can file them, buff them, gaze at them lovingly. And oh! The excitement of being able to wear nail varnish! I'll be able to show them off in Frosted Pink, Mailbox Red, Vintage Vamp Purple! Hurrah!

Oh. Hang on a minute. Still can't use the nail polish. Fumes not good for the baby.
Arse.

There's nothing quite like it

22 weeks

It's somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3am. It's deathly quiet. I am awake.
Why? Because for the last 10 minutes BabyG has been performing what I can only describe as acrobatic maneuvers. Apparently, given what size, shape and stage of development BabyG is at, there is still plenty of room in there.
Enough room for him to swing gaily from the umbilical cord from one side of my womb to the other going yee-ha!
When bored of this, I think he's doing handstands, perhaps alternating with the odd cartwheel.
And, darn it, he always knows when I'm talking about him because he will start making his presence felt, like he is right at this minute. Or maybe he's just going "hey, where's my breakfast?"
I'm loving it, because there's really nothing quite like it. It's really quite splendid to share the pre-dawn hours with someone, we're bonding, BabyG and me.
Though I have to admit, it does have a teeny weeny bit of an Alien feel to it....

I spoke too soon

21 weeks

Having recently rejoiced the end of the spotty teenager phase of my pregnancy, I awoke this morning to see my fifteen-year-old self staring back at me in the mirror.
Or should I say, my fifteen-year-old chin.
It's a good job that concealers have come such a long way since nineteen eighty-ahem.
However, no concealer works miracles, so I still feel acutely embarrassed because as a grown woman it looks like I just haven't bothered washing my face. This is made all the worse by the fact that I'm still in that "Is she pregnant or is she fat?" stage, so it's not immediately obvious that it's just my hormones in overdrive.
Oh well, it beats morning sickness.

We're halfway there

21 weeks.

Bloody hell, we're already past the half-way stage, how did that happen so quickly?

BabyG is increasingly active. His 5am aerobic sessions are commonplace, and interestingly, he perks up after I eat. I wonder if he will have a healthy appetite? I can keep myself amused for hours by watching the little pokes and bumps coming out of my tummy. I poke back now again to see if I can establish communication. In fact, I think BabyG knows I'm talking about him right now because he's just given me a bit of a kicking.

I've discovered another bright side to the hormone situation (see earlier post) my skin has improved no end: no more teenage spots. Hurrah!

Update

20 weeks

All is going well with pregnancy. Well, mostly. Hormones have suddenly kicked into action and I find myself in tears more often than not. Husband is slowly learning to think before speaking rather than risking another screeching, slamming door and wailing episode. And they say it's when the baby arrives that the marriage is tested. Pah! At this rate we'll hit the divorce courts before the birth. On the bright side, I'm assuming that it's all tied in with the recent, rather alarming, growth spurt of my bump, meaning that the little nipper is getting bigger and stronger. Go BabyG, Go.