Potentially Bonkers

I like the New Year.  OK, New Year's resolutions are a bit pointless.  For example, everyone loves to resolve to lose (insert ridiculous unattainable two digit figure here) pounds.  This resolution is usually so successful that it must recur year in year out, with the number of pounds to be lost increasing exponentially.  So, thoughts on resolutions for becoming better versions of ourselves?  Noble, unoriginal and usually forgotten by 1st February.  However, the New Year itself is great.  For me I find I'm filled with a renewed sense of purpose.  It rejuvenates me because there's a fleeting spectre of possibility hanging in the air.  It's the start of a whole new year - and it's just brimming with potential.

Now I know what Dylan Moran has to say about potential.  (If you don't I strongly advise you to go here  because you need to know too.)  But I can't help it.  At this time of year I have to explore some potential even if it's just to dip my toes in and tromp it around in the mud for a bit.  I know that the wind will be gone from my proverbial sails by February but that's OK because it's a whole new year and maybe this will be the one in which I succeed in my resolve to win the lottery.

I recognise that this is another recurring long shot on the resolution front: ye olde get rich quick.  OK, it's late and I'm tired and I need you to indulge me as I share the madness.  It could be worse - I could be boring you with details of the baby weight I have to shift to get back into my work wardrobe or how many hours I need to put in at the gym to get climbing fit again - stay with me just for giggles.

Now, I see the potential for this grand resolution to fail spectacularly in line with the epic tradition of New Year's resolutions generally.  That's why I have a back up plan.  I'm also resolving this year to get rich s-l-o-w-l-y.  Some may say that the best way to achieve this plan would be to stop buying lottery tickets and to divert the funds instead to my ever barren ISA, but I don't drink and I don't smoke and a ticket is a small price to pay to be able to have that half hour a week where MC and I enjoy the 'what would we do if we won the lottery' conversation.  Love those chats...

I have sought out a number of articles and blogs that deal with the business of getting rich slowly.  The premise is simple.  Spend less of your current income in order to be better off.  So far I have found two amusing and canny tips that I intend to try.  I even have MC roped in for a short term crack at it (though he seems to be endlessly better at money business than I).

First tip is: when you make a saving pay the money you have saved to your saving account.  That way you don't divert the money off elsewhere.  For example, if you cancel a magazine subscription/gym membership/other-expensive-outgoing-designed-to-help-you-become-a-more-fabulous-version-of-yourself, which costs £x a month, then pay that money into your savings account as soon as you are paid.

Secondly, write down the little expenditures.  We all know what our mortgage/rent and utilities comes to, but how much do we actually spend breaking tenners for bus fares, buying newspapers and frothy milky coffee? The chap who recommended this seemingly OCD tip came up with it while his wife was trying to lose weight with Scottish Slimmers.  She would dutifully write everything down that she ate because in doing so she would think twice about non-essential sugary nutrient-devoid carbfesty impulse munchies and successfully attain her goals.  Everyone who has ever lost any weight knows it is the little things that mount up and add inches to your ass!  Well, apparently the same theory works in reverse when trying to stop unintentionally slimming down your purse.

If you're busy this new year avoiding your potential, or if you're just too busy being fabulous already to possibly be able to resolve to make yourself more fabulous, then feel free to join in the experiment with me.    

It's potentially bonkers but at least it's not likely to cost you anything.

A Sucky Start to Motherhood

You don't have to be a well read Mum-to-be these days to know that breast milk is the best thing you can feed your child.  Pro-breastfeeding material is lobbed at you by every health care provider you meet from your initial booking appointment to the day you turn up in labour.  The leaflets, like all good propaganda, only tell you part of the story in the best possible light.

I was as gungho about breastfeeding Munchkin as I had been about having a natural labour.  When it came to the crunch though my labour was unnaturally assisted and heavily medicated and I was sorely disappointed in both myself and the whole experience.  This perceived failure at the starting block of motherhood goes a long way to explaining my perseverance with breastfeeding beyond the usual boundaries of sanity.  Breastfeeding is a natural process but it does not always come naturally to either babies or new mothers and more people should be told this!

Despite my labour culminating in a Hitchcock worthy blood bath, thanks to the almighty epidural, I was in a comfortable space to have skin to skin time with my beautiful daughter when she arrived.  When some of the dozen or so medical personnel vacated the room I had a go at bringing Munchkin to the breast.  She seemed to know what she was doing and it was all good.  She nuzzled in and MC fed me some toast and for a good hour or so we were left to our own devices.  When I was taken to the ward MC seemed to have her asleep and so I assured him we were all good and I'd see him in the morning after a good sleep.  He'd only just left when she started to cry.  Despite the shaky legs I got her out the crib and into bed with me and the midwife suggested she wanted to nurse for comfort.  This was at midnight.  She went through a sequence of nursing, falling asleep and then waking screaming the minute I laid her down until around three.  My night light didn't work and I was the only woman on my ward with a baby: the others were all waiting to be induced.  I felt terrible that my baby was keeping all these people awake when they needed rest.  I twice asked the midwives to come and help me with latching and when I buzzed them again after three it was to beg them to help me get her to sleep as I was so tired I couldn't get my limbs to function.  I don't know what time they brought her back to me, all swaddled by the professionals, but when the hoovers woke me at six she was fast asleep.  She was still fast asleep when the midwife came to check us at eight where I was berated for not having woken my baby up to feed.  I had blood blisters on both breasts.

So, we didn't get off to the greatest start but this wasn't the worst part of the horrid hospital feeding fiasco.  My baby wanted to sleep pretty much all of the first day we spent in the hospital.  Two lots of visitors came and she slept.  MC and I spent a dedicated two hours between visiting times trying to wake her up.  When we'd get her eyes open we'd try to get her to latch only for her to lie passively in my arms looking at me like I was stupid.  One midwife would say, "You must wake that baby, she must feed."  The next would say, "This is normal, as long as she wakes within a few hours it's all fine."  This went on and on and I got more and more upset.  Eventually I had two midwives in front of me around nine at night and confronted them on the conflicting advice and both together they couldn't agree on what was to be done.  Eventually, around midnight, Munchkin woke and wanted to feed.  We spent a couple of hours in bed just feeding and snoozing and feeding and snoozing and the third day she was more awake and feeding regularly so we were allowed to come home. 

On day four it all went horribly wrong.  First day at home and my baby wouldn't latch at all.  She screamed blue murder at me and despite all my efforts she just got more and more distressed.  She was jaundiced and there were pink crystals in her nappies (not a good sign).  By evening I had sent MC to Sainsburys to pick up a breast pump and we were cup feeding her 10mls.  She finally slept.  That night was as close as I came to the baby blues.  I remember cradling a screaming Munchkin and MC cuddling me as I cried about how I couldn't even feed my baby.  It wasn't pretty but uphills struggles are never best attempted on no sleep while you're in less than great physical condition.

When the midwives came the next day Munchkin had lost 11.9% of her birth weight and it was looking as if we'd end up back in the hospital if things didn't improve.  I kept expressing and we progressed from cup feeding to using a syringe.  Oddly I got more and more sore, despite having given up trying to get the baby latched in favour of expressing and knowing how much milk she was getting.  The midwives came every other day to monitor her weight.  Within a week I was in so much pain I couldn't even attempt to let Munchkin feed from me.  The mere thought made my toes curl and a cold sweat run down my neck.  Being in the shower hurt, clothes hurt.  The midwives finally stopped coming to see us and we went to the feeding clinic at the hospital.  They sent me to the GP with suspected thrush.  I didn't even know that was a thing.  

Within two days I was able to feed my baby directly without expressing.  It took about another week for us to completely make the shift from expressed bottles to full time breastfeeding.  All in all, it took us four weeks to overcome our difficulties and I don't know how many times I considered giving up and feeding her formula.  

Rather than this be a cautionary anti-breastfeeding tale, I would want other new mums to take the following lesson from the fiasco above: if you are having problems get help early.  Go to the professionals at the feeding clinics, rather than rely on the advice of midwives.  If you're having problems feeding, of course there will be issues with your child's weight gain but be firm with the midwives.  Don't wait in for them, just tell them you're going to a clinic for help.  No two midwives can agree on anything I have discovered. 

There are lots of other humorous trials and tribulations when it comes to early breastfeeding.  My favourite was windmill arms.  To this day I just love it when my daughter decides she's full and presses the flat of her tongue against the flow of milk, soaking me and her in the process.  I also love waking up in the middle of the night soaked in milk and all my clothes smelling like old goats.  Breastfeeding is brilliant.

Breastfeeding is brilliant when you have it mastered.  Sarcasm aside.  It's convenient, it's cheap and it's good for your baby.  But between you and me, I'm not sure you don't have to be totally bonkers to get to that point!  I have a new theory on the history of wet nurses.  Rather than it being a 'too posh to be a child's personal coo' kind of deal, I think those women who could nurse did and kept doing it.  Failing at it wasn't an option in the days before formula.  

I take my hat off to all the ladies everywhere who have successfully breastfed their babies.  After the events we encountered I've met a lot of women who had similar experiences to mine or worse, had their milk dry up before they were correctly diagnosed with a problem beyond latching.  We need to have more open and honest conversations about breastfeeding if we are ever going to be able to turn around the formula frenzy of the previous generations.  

Breast may be best but getting the hang of it can be a totally suckerous experience.  

A New Life: A Different Brand of Bonkerdom

I had a baby.  Not news to many of you.  Said baby is now approaching ten weeks old.  It's true that between trying to sleep, eat regular meals and keep a small person alive, blogging has been low on my list of priorities, hence the lapse.  I did try and fail on several occasions to write my birth story in the weeks following munchkin's arrival.  On the one hand a part of me thought that it might be cathartic to 'get it off my chest', but a bigger part of me was just depressed about the whole experience and failing miserably to view it in any kind of positive light.  Although I still get a little sad thinking about what transpired for us, time has taken away the guilt factor and the satisfaction of watching our daughter grow has eclipsed the disappointment I felt over the birth plan going to pot.  I'm still not of a mood to share that story but I do want to start writing again.  It's a substitute for REM sleep as an outlet for sorting through the build up of bonkerdom that goes on in my noggin.

I fully plan on regaling the interwebs with our parenting adventures to date and back filling the gap (titles such as 'Breastfeeding: from Finger to Boob', 'Real Nappies: the Spectrum of Poo and the Wonders of Vanish', 'Conflicting Advice: How to Not Bop Health Professionals on the Nose' and 'Sleep or Lack Thereof'' all spring to mind).  For today though, I'm starting small and considering how my daughter has changed my life generally so far.

First up, I kind of miss my job.  Daft, I know.  Many people would consider nine months off from your regular nine-to-five a godsend.  However, I like my job.  I have a fairly good handle on how to do it and when I don't have a clue how to do something I just throw a lot of time and effort at it until the troublesome task is done.  Even on the worst days at work you are contracted to be there so many hours a day and you know that at some point it will all stop and you can put your coat on and go home.  This parenting thing is tough.  You never get to put your coat on for the day, and more worryingly, you're never quite sure you're doing anything right.  There are small achievements; ten fingers and ten toes, your child has a good weight gain, the first smiles and coos or even just making it out of the house by a given time.  However, there are a lot of disconcerting things too, like your child losing too high a percentage of its birth weight in the early days, not knowing why your child is crying, being unsure whether you're producing enough milk, are you dressing them too warmly or are their hands cold?  The list goes on.

Secondly, as a person, physically and emotionally, I am unmade as a mother.  I'd like to say I don't feel whole but that would imply that I've lost something or that I'm damaged.  I suppose it's more a feeling of being taken apart and not quite put back together with the pieces in the right places.  The emotional roller coaster of the first few days, not helped by serious feeding issues, settled quickly and only really gets rocky these days when lack of sleep is combined with the little one being unwell and more demanding than normal, or excessive cluster feeding.  I've also been really lucky and I've recovered well physically (stretch marks, or 'tiger stripes' as MC affectionately calls them, aside).  I have the remnants of some baby weight to lose but I'm content to do so slowly and steadily.  Munchkin is in a low centile for her weight gain (being a long skinny thing like her Daddy) and so I can't take any drastic measures that might affect her milk supply.  There's the physical stumbling block for me I suppose.  I don't feel like my body is my own.  I expected that of pregnancy, what with having an occupant and all that jazz, but breastfeeding is a marathon.  It's being on call to another being's needs twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.  It's never being able to have your partner take the 3am feed.  It's not being able to be away from your baby for more than a couple of hours.

Would I go back and do it all over again?  For munchkin?  Definitely.  I'm not so sure I'm game for repeating the process but everyone says that at least for a while I suppose.

We created life and that's pretty amazing.  She's adorable and bright and exhausting and fun and I can't wait to watch her continue to learn and grow.  My life now: bent out of shape and slave to a 60cm tall strawberry blonde.  No paper pushing, meetings or major achievements in sight but today I got to add bogey patrol to my parenting repertoire.  It's still my life, just a different brand of bonkerdom. 

We made it through the early days and we're all still alive.  The potted plants however, didn't make it.  I apparently can't multitask living entities and I don't have the energy to beat myself up about that.  Life is about the small victories people.     

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! 

Nursery Progress & News

Generally the news at this point is that I am slow.  I'm slow walking to the bus stop, slow in updating my blog, slow in moving my derriere off the couch.  Aches and pains are frequent companions, particularly if I've walked or stood up too long.  My big problem is that I've yet to define what exactly is 'too long'.

Anyway, I'm not going to moan today, life is good.  I'm finishing up at the office on Tuesday and will work from home until the 15th of June.  I'll save two hours a day in travel and I won't have to get up and down the multiple flights of stairs at the office.  Yipee!  It does mean a bit of very repetitive data entry for a whole 8 days but I can do that and drink tea and listen to some tunes with my feet up so it's all good.

The big news for today is that the nursery is pretty much finished!  I still have to get some little wicker baskets for storage on the shelves and I have to make the curtains to keep the dust off the hanging clothes but those can be jobs for the maternity leave.  The weather was great last weekend so I got all the baby linen, nappies and clothes washed and packed away.  It was mighty strange watching MC hang his 6ft 3'' person clothes up on the washing line next to diddy little booties and newborn baby vests.  Very cute and heart warming, just totally hilarious too.

So here's some pics of the nursery:

A huge thank you to MC's Dad who gifted us a joiner to come take out the existing built in wardrobe and build this more child friendly space.  I may have mentioned before (on just a few occasions) that the previous occupant of this house was a bit of a DIY Cowboy and doing anything requires a lot of ripping out and starting from scratch.  When we peeled the wallpaper in this room we discovered at some point there'd been a leak which had never been allowed to dry before they papered over the top of the mould.  Nice.  Some bleach, an open window and a plaster later you'd never know where the holes, the mould or the dado rail had been!

For the sake of good economy (post plasterer's bill) we decided to use up the hoard of white paint left to us by the Cowboy.  MC decided I wasn't allowed to help paint because of the fumes so it's taken a while for him to put the obligatory 3 coats of paint on the new plaster and the MDF that the shelving in the wardrobe is made out of.  It's been frustrating for me not to be able to just dive in and help get the job done.  Those that know me know patience for an upside down house is not a strong point.

I couldn't have been more delighted on Friday when I came home to find all the painting paraphernalia removed from Munchkin's room.  Unfortunately for MC I probably did not express this very well given I'd gone from work to a leaving do and consequently got home at 10pm and fell straight into bed.  Honest, my wonderful husband, I was gleeful, just too pooped to express this adequately. To break up the somewhat clinical whiteness of the room we broke up the shelved section by using up some light green paint within the frame in contrast to the white shelves and bought bright stickers to put on the walls.

The stickers I could do!  That's what I thought anyway.  Turns out they weren't cut very well and so on several occasions they tore in multiple places making them very difficult to apply to the wall without the joins being very obvious.  The only major casualty was Tigger in the first photo of the wall stickers.  He came off the sheet in FOUR pieces, the worst of the joins cleverly disguised by randomly positioned leaves and a honeypot.  Well, you do what you can says I.  By the time Munchkin is old enough to care she'll probably have decided that she's too grown up for Winnie the Pooh and friends anyway. 

Freddie moves into his new home and is joined by... 

The Hedgehog of Love.  Bought by me some moons ago for a special person who was having a nasty time of things.  He worked his magic and his previous carer, now happy and in love, has sent him back to me to bring Munchkin some luck and happiness.







In the gap under the bookshelves in the built in space we're going to put a toybox (currently buried under mountains of boxes in my Mum's storage unit) with a padded cushion on top so it doubles as a wee person seat.  We haven't built the baby's furniture yet because my Mum's coming to stay in a couple of weeks so the lodger's old double bed is making its way from our bedroom back into the nursery temporarily, courtesy of some Canadian muscles.  If we go into labour at any point during her visit - well, I figure you're supposed to labour like 8-12 hours at home with your first child - lots of time for 3 people to build a cotbed, a changing unit and the rocker for a moses basket!

A few further thank yous going out over the pond - to MC's Mum and Stepdad for our nursing chair for the baby's room.  We've been holding out on ordering until I'm due to be home during the day to receive it but we have seen the very one we'd like (at our friends' house - copying is a very great form of flattery guys!).  We received some mystery bibs from the Netherlands during the week which were actually from MC's Mum too.  She's uber creative and has many talented friends, one of which made these two lovely strawberry patterned handmade bibs.  MC's stepsister, Munchkin's Aunty V, has been busy with the knitting needles and produced a lovely lemon yellow cardie with matching hat, each sporting a cheerie royal blue flower, as well as some pretty purple mitts.  Thank you for the presents and the card peeps and fret not, Munchkin may not have to wait till the Fall to wear them - this is Scotland after all and we seem to have had our week of good weather!  

It has been some time since the last belly shot.  Here it is...

I am a house.  More specifically I am a slow moving studio apartment with one long half Canadian resident.  However, this doesn't phase me quite so much, not now that I know our actual house is ready and equipped to be the Munchkin's home too.

Midwife Bashing

Just a brief blog today because I'm cheerie and too often I come on here for a good whingeing sesh.  First up, my own midwife has returned from her gallivanting and I didn't need to see the evil witch with the lack of social skills again at my appointment today.  Added to which, she didn't want to stick anything sharp in me - always a bonus.  Secondly, the sun is shining for the second consecutive day and despite the stitchy pains I did make it back into the office this morning: bye bye for now oh ye cabin fever.  Lastly (well I don't want to go on too much in case you get jealous) baby is the right size and head down.  So, all is well with the world and I wanted to share as I sit here with my cuppa tea and a macaroon cookie.

I can't tell you what a difference it makes to see a midwife who puts you at ease.  I had a list of questions as long as my arm last month and the woman I saw was so poe-faced that I didn't dare ask any of them!  Anytime I said anything by way of conversation that wasn't a direct question she just didn't respond.  I asked a sensible question (or so I thought) about the potential side-effects of the anti-D injection (which I had to have, ironically, because I'm a universal donor!) and the response was a shrug, a slight pause, and "It hurts?"  Yes indeed, her response came complete with question mark worthy inflection.  I heard "Why would you ask such a stupid question?"  I hated her more because she was right and it was quite frankly the nippiest jab I've had ever.  Really hope I don't happen across that woman when I'm in labour.  She might say something infuriating or informative like 'this will hurt' and I won't be able to hold my tongue. 

Anyway, my own regular midwife doesn't have a problem talking, in fact sometimes I struggle to get a word in sideways but that being said I always feel able to ask ridiculous questions of her.  Munchkin decided to demonstrate her affection for said midwife by giving her a good solid belly-lurch inducing kick when she dared try to work out which way up she was.

And so both of us have done a little midwife bashing today.  Here's hoping post macaroon sugar rush, that munchkin is as cheerie as me too.       

Undone by my Day Off!

Work has been the epicentre of my life for some weeks now.  I have been eating, sleeping and breathing project plans and mammoth spreadsheets.  And this has been fine.  It’s what I do and I do it best under pressure.  I did take one day out to attend the wedding of a dear friend, someone I lived with for four years while at University and that was a fabulous day.  She looked amazing, the wedding party looked beautiful, the venue was stunning and the groom looked happy and oddly, much more relaxed than he had at the wedding of my other Uni flatmate last November where he had been performing best man duties. 

    

So, it’s been a busy month and the flat, this blog, my friends and poor MC have been sadly sadly neglected.  However, project crunch time landed over the weekend and things are now OK bar the expected teething problems.  After so many twelve hour days in the run up to completion date my back was definitely feeling the strain on Monday so I decided to take a much needed day off away from the desk yesterday.  

The flat is a little pongy at the moment because MC had spent the weekend glossing in the nursery so yesterday I headed off out and about early doors.  Really enjoyed a swim though I have to say, one tires quickly at 7 months pregnant!  This isn’t helped by not being able to take in huge gulps of oxygen with the baby taking up some space up under my ribcage.  It never ceases to amaze me though how normal I feel in the water: when I say normal I of course mean ‘non-pregnant heifer’.  It really hit me when I tried after only 45 minutes to haul my now 12 stone carcass out of the water, up some creaky stainless steel steps, just how heavy I’ve been feeling lately.  Every step up that ladder was like a bag of cement being heaped back on my knees and shoulders.  I suspect I may be spending much of my time from here on in a swimming pool!  

The rest of my day was spent shopping, bussing it round Edinburgh, dropping off my little brother’s birthday card (with cakes), visiting a friend and her baby boy (who has just got to that super cute stage where they want to join in the conversation as they explore their voice box), eating cake and making chilli nachos (which in my humble opinion were very good, though as MC pointed out, perhaps not as stupendous as those served in The Waiting Room in Morningside where they do drown the whole plate in melted cheddar).  It was a fantastic day and I fell into bed happily exhausted at about 10 o’clock, sucking down some Rennies for the heartburn which is now making a daily appearance in my world from late afternoon onwards.  

Other new symptoms since I last posted… did I mention the heartburn?  First time it happened I had no idea what the hell was wrong with me.  I’ve never had it before in my life.  Felt like I’d expect my throat and oesophagus to feel after spending a week with winter vomiting virus.  (Too much information I hear you cry – moving swiftly on.)  My hands and fingers have started to swell towards the end of the day.  I’ve had to take my wedding ring off because the other day I had to pry it off only to find it had cut red marks into my finger.  

The strangest new development though has to be Braxton Hicks.  I first noticed them at the end of last week.  In all honesty, I can’t say exactly when they started because they don’t hurt and I only really noticed them over the weekend if it was happening and I tried to stand up or move around at the time.  If you imagine you have a large piece of tubigrip round your middle and that someone is pulling it tighter than it’s meant to go.  It’s a little uncomfortable but I did some reading and it’s all normal and healthy for your body to start practicing.  Some people notice their belly hardening up on and off from 12 weeks.  

When I got up this morning after my adventures yesterday I was a little uncomfortable down my right side and I put it down to round ligament pain, which isn’t really anything new, though it’s not bothered me much through the endless hours of being sat still at my desk.  However, bout twenty past 7 the Hicks thing kicked in and I felt like the right side of my belly was going to split in two in a straight line from my rib to my hip bone.  I called the people in the know for some advice and was told to pretty much sit still, take paracetamol and call them immediately if I noticed any signs of early labour or regularity in the contractions.  

So, here I am, catching up on correspondence with the world (and trying to stay in touch with work but I have to say my baby netbook hates outlook express and is very uncooperative).  The flat could really do with a clean and there’s ironing needs done but I’m to sit here and be good.  It’s not easy.  I wish MC had made good on his threat to take the iron to work with him today because I swear to the man upstairs the damn thing is calling my name!  My boss called me back to say that at least I had good timing in starting to fall apart as the worst of the project is over but I have to say the timing is indeed very very bad.  MC talked me into cancelling our Virgin TV package from 12^th May – I can’t even watch daytime TV.  I’m going to have to bite the bullet and learn how to work LoveFilm on demand.  Perhaps I may make a start on baby curtains for the nursery, I can do that sat down if I can just fudge the crawling around the floor bit with the measuring tape. 

What can I say, I’m rubbish at doing nada.  I’d say if you’re in the neighbourhood come visit me, but that might just distress me because the dusting needs done.  I wonder if anyone has ever written a book on how pregnancy impacts OCD?  

Anyway, to all the people who told me I was working too much and that the stress wouldn’t be good for me or munchkin, I can now say definitively, it was the day off that did me in!