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."
Friday, 5 October 2007
Thursday, 4 October 2007
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.
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.
Monday, 1 October 2007
Friday, 21 September 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
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?"
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?"
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
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."
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."
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