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."