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.
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.
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