Friday, 13 July 2012

No News Is... Well Just Not News

The forty week mark looms on Sunday.  In some respects the last nine months have flown by: it doesn't feel like nearly a whole year has elapsed since we saw that faint pink line.  Yet when I think of specific events, they feel like a lifetime ago.  Our lodger left us the night before we took that pregnancy test and it feels like she's been gone for years.  Pregnancy, I've therefore decided, is like being on an express train hurtling towards the brick wall of labour.  Now nearing the end of the line, I find looking back on particular moments  like trying to recall what specific stations looked like as we flew past at high speed, while sipping water and trying not to be sick.  Those moments have a distant, surreal feel that makes them feel so much longer ago than they really were.  The last two weeks however, have been a complete reversal of all that was before.  Time has ground to a halt and I can recall each painful second with perfect clarity.

I don't think I'm usually an impatient person.  Normally, I'm good at being busy and preoccupied.  One of the perks of OCD is a limited scope for ennui.  The difficulty at the moment is that I can't get done all the things that I'm twitching to get stuck into.  I really want to cut my hedge for example - so much so that I actually got the strimmer out and made a start.  I got about six feet along before I had to consider how on earth I was going to get the trimmings off the pavement and into the garden waste bin.  With great difficulty was the answer and there endeth my effort to tame the living green beast.  MC has now placed a blanket ban on the operation of hand held power tools until Munchkin is no longer resident in my gargantuan belly.  I won't admit to him that I'm not in a hurry to repeat the experiment anyway (luckily he doesn't read my blog!).  The other job I'd really like to tackle is to transform the ugly cream gloss paint in the hallway into something white and shiny (thereby creating a living space less resembling a tobacconist's parlour).  The problem there of course is that I don't expose Munchkin to caffeine so I'm really not about to go get her high on gloss paint fumes.   

So it seems there's nothing for it but to cook, bake and keep the house tidy until I pop.  Pregnancy lasts nine months so that by the time you get to the end of it you'll smile in the face of labour (in spite of every horror story the world wants to throw at you) just to be over and done with.

I decided early on that there was no point fretting about labour.  To come back to my train analogy, why worry about so inevitable a destination?  I set out therefore to enjoy the scenery (and got a bit scuppered along the way with travel sickness).  I've moaned and groaned and gained a horrendous amount of weight but despite it all, I am now just super keen to meet Munchkin.  The imminent arrival is still causing a bit of a reality adjustment for MC who regularly says things like "We're going to have a baby," with an expression of stunned wonder.  Perhaps nine months isn't long enough for a man's adjustment... 

Poor MC is definitely ready to be done with my waddly wingeing preggers persona though.  So now that we're all geared up to complete our journey (even if we can't get heads round the concept of becoming 'Mummy' and 'Daddy'), could whoever is responsible please get off the emergency brake!