The Bump Finds its Feet Whilst Mine Vanish

I saw a great t-shirt on, I dunno, maybe Amazon last week.  It read "Hi there, have you seen my feet?"  The belly is so enormous tonight I'm not even going to do a bump photo.  That would entail getting up off the sofa.  So, we're twenty weeks to go and I think my days of late night working are over for now.  Was in Glasgow last night for a work thing and got home at ten which in a previous life I might have considered reasonable.  The bones however, no longer find this type of behaviour, or any prolonged walking for that matter, acceptable.  I was so sore when I finally got in my scratcher that I woke up every time I tried to roll over.  Coupled with the bathroom trips and wacky dreams it was a supremely unsatisfying night of broken sleep.

Speaking of wacky dreams actually, I'll elaborate.  Haven't graced you with the true extent of my personal brand of bonkers for a while now.  So, in last night's epic fiasco MC and I were renting a wee flat very like one I stayed in for a while over in Parkgrove.  This flat however, was underground.  Of course, I hear you sigh, because so much of Edinburgh's private rented accommodation is subterranean.  MC and I returned home in the dream to find the landlord (think Del-Boy) wielding power tools and generally knocking the flat to pieces.  We had to move while pregnant and quickly, because he was taking out the spiral staircase that provided access!  It all got very stressful and then I woke up overjoyed to remember that we own our own home and I only have to deal with the occasional unreasonable landlord in my professional life.

Some things, little things, make up for all the night-time bathroom shuffling, the brilliant bonkers dreams and the achey tailbone.  Little things, like a very small hand or an itty bitty foot poking your insides.  A week past Monday, after my late bendy stretchy session, I was lying in bed enjoying the feel of just being.  Well, that is to say I was enjoying the just being horizontal - it's my very favourite type of being in general at the moment.  (My spirituality is heading off to join the tumbleweed in my desert of insanity as I write tonight people, stay with me just a little longer.)  It was then that I felt that first distinct kick.  Not a bubble or a flutter or a roll, a kick.  I must have appeared momentarily stunned as MC asked if I was feeling well.  I declared I'd been kicked but was otherwise fine.  We snuggled and MC wanted to try to feel it too.  I pressed two of his fingers into the skin where I'd felt the jab but suspected that he wouldn't feel anything because I'd read that it can take weeks for your partner to share the experience.  Not everything you read is true.  Munchkin continued to give me and MC's fingers by extension a good beating for a few minutes before going off for a snooze or maybe to play with its fist or umbilical cord.  A switch has been flicked.  I can feel munchkin regularly.  It particularly likes to attack the waistband of any clothing I might happen to be wearing.  It parties twenty minutes after any meal and has boogie time between 10 and 11pm most evenings.

That wasn't the last of the ups from last week though.  MC and I went to Dunblane Hydro for our babymoon.  I've never had a massage before and it was very nice.  I definitely had one or two 'ah, bisto' moments.  MC did a lot of reading and I napped a lot between meals.  The food was generally impressive but the puddings were numptious.  We were only away for two days but it was very satisfying to be in an environment where you can't do much but chill out and relax.  For two days it was fine that our bathroom wasn't clean, that the laundry was amassing or that the dishwasher might need emptying.  Two days of being able to be horizontal at anytime of the day without reproach or guilt.  Lovely. 

Just so you don't feel cheated, and because I did promise, I'll share my down of the week.  I went to the dentist for teeth cleaning.  He begged me to use his electric sander thingy (which he got me to the appointment promising he wouldn't do on account of my ridiculously sensitive teeth) and agreed to scale my teeth manually.  His take on being gentle left my tongue, upper and lower gums, front and back, punctured and bleeding in several places.  Next time he tells me my teeth are fine but could do with a scale and polish, I plan to smile sweetly and tell him you have to learn to take the rough with the smooth if you get to the close of your twenties without a filling.  He can stick his power tools and instruments of torture in some other plonker who's paying for the privilege of being stabbed in the name of aesthetic dentistry.  I will take myself to the chemist for a whitening kit!

Other than the evil dentist visit I can't complain.  Spring is here.  My garden is tulipless because I was remiss with my green fingers due to early pregnancy hibernation last autumn but I left for work and returned home today in daylight and it was so pleasurable an experience I forgot to miss the tulips.  Mr Sainsbury may be able to save the day with the grown elsewhere variety. 

Life is good, and tomorrow, just so MC and I can spend the next 4 months trying to agree on a name in our usual indecisive fashion, we just might find out if munchkin is a boy or a girl.  Watch this space!   

One Hot Rabbit, Business with Meerkats & Puppet Humour

It’s been an eventful few weeks.  Actually, maybe it only seems eventful to me because for the last two weeks I’ve been out my bed exploring the wonders of the world beyond daytime TV.  I am well.  Yipee!  Excepting the emergence of even more BELLY, I am almost my completely bonkers usual self again.  

So, as well as work, MC and I have been up to stuff.  A week past Thursday we went to see ‘Avenue Q’ at the Playhouse after a nice bite to eat at the Ghurkha Brigade over the road.  I can’t believe I’d never heard of it before.  It was immensely entertaining.  It was MC’s call to get tickets with our Christmas money from Mum and seen as I usually instigate our musical outings I was happy to go along with something of interest to him.  I knew nothing about it and as per my pregnant scatterbrained self, didn’t ever remember to get to with the Googling.  I assumed it was some pseudo-sci-fi-geeky-thing but curiosity eventually surfaced and I asked MC what we were going to see.  “Sesame Street for grown-ups,” was the reply.  

OK.  I was a huge fan of Sesame Street as a kid but wasn’t otherwise convinced that we were about to embark on a stonking evening of entertainment.  I was very happy to be wrong!  It was great fun.  I nearly ended myself when ‘trekkie monster’ started his ‘Internet is for Porn’ song.  Excerpt here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6eFNRKEROw&feature=related

The puppets are endearing, the handlers can sing and there’s a great energy about it.  Definitely not for the PC conscious and definitely not for children, but this is a brilliant bit of musical theatre – Go See It!

Last weekend was a bit of a laze fest.  Being back on my feet full time kind of wiped me out.  I was content to do not very much bar waddle to the shops on Sunday afternoon for some supplies.  It has started to occur to me that soon, after a week of work, my weekends will not be for relaxing: indeed they will not be for me at all.  I’m guessing it’s very normal to worry about becoming a parent.  When you’ve been responsible for only yourself for going on thirty years it’s hard to imagine letting go of your selfishness enough to be solely responsible for another being’s health, welfare and happiness.  But on the other hand I’m really looking forward to teaching the munchkin to play, talk, sing, dance and read, to going to soft-play and visiting with friends and family.    

On Valentine’s Day MC gave me a rabbit.

It’s not just any rabbit, not even just a cute rabbit - you put it in the microwave and heat it up and it smells of lavender.  It sure beats into the attic my ten year old bobbled and frayed hot water bottle.  In return I got him a mouthguard.  Who said romance is dead?  That’s exactly what he asked me for though.  It protects his nice straight white smile while he’s rolling around in those limb, elbow and knee jambalayas at Jiu Jitsu, so it’s a good bit kit in my book.

In other less exciting news we just sorted this year’s home insurance.  Not as groovy as singing puppets or as comforting as hot rabbits but it comes with a free meerkat toy which adds a delicious sense of immaturity to the otherwise arduous grown up task of spending money on something you can’t see and may never use.  We almost halved last years’ premium into the bargain too so I’m considering it one of the ‘ups’ of the week.  The fluffy toy arrival will mark the second in our family of meerkats, my Dad having provided the first at Christmas as a ‘just something to put to one side, not wanting to make it for anyone in particular in case it was bad luck or superstition or something’ kind of gift.  Obviously they will be the first of what I expect will be many soft toys for the munchkin.

The nursery is the next order of business.  Just waiting for some joiners to quote to sort the built in wardrobe and then we (well MC if I’m realistic) can start the fun bit of painting.  When we’re all cleaned up we can go cot and nursing chair shopping in the wonderful world of Gumtree.  

In the meantime, some more relaxation is on the cards: it’s Babymoon time.  We’re off this week (bar a day in my case) and we’re doing lunch with my Dad, a visit to the midwife, a visit to my friend and her new baby boy and two days at the Dunblane Hydro (as was – is now a ‘Doubletree by Hilton’ or some such thing).  We plan on swimming and reading and having a massage and eating and wandering the grounds and not drinking.  And we will have great babymoontastic fun doing not very much at all really.  It’s come at a great time as it’ll make this week fly by and then next week we have our 20 week scan where hopefully we’ll find out the gender of the munchkin!  Here's the just shy of 19 weeks belly:

And just in case all that talk of lazing around being pampered made you at all jealous, fret not.  Next week I’ll be sure to share with you news of our spa, but also of my visit to the dentist. 

Frustration Stations

Scotland got beat by England at home.  I behaved very well and didn't scream abuse at my TV set mostly because I didn't want to induce a coughing fit and a little bit because I didn't want to terrify MC.  After all my efforts to instill in him an understanding if not a love for the game, it would probably be detrimental to have him perceive rugby turn his pregnant missus into a homicidal maniac. 

Bring back the mighty Patterson.  What's with this commentating on the sidelines and 'retirement' nonsense?  He should be mandated into each game: made to provide a National Service - actually, I'd settle for him just keeping Dan Parks off the pitch.  Such a shame they can't keep Parks on the sideline until he's required for a kick at the posts.  No one can deny the man can kick a ball from a considerable distance, but I'm concerned he can only do so when no-one else is taking a running lunge at him at the same time.  His boot is otherwise a liability during play.  Too often does it hand possession like a well wrapped gift to the opposition but yesterday an English player managed to charge down the ball off the end of Dan's boot and score a try within two paces.  There's a good reason that man plays for Cardiff when he's not playing for Scotland - best to put most of Wales and England in between him and the north.    

The English squad were a bunch of uncapped newbies and should have been squashed as such.  No such luck.  Please note that I hold no particular angst against the English side.  Indeed, I suffer as much despair when we get gubbed by the other 4 nations involved in this particular tournament.  Although the national subconscious is trained to shy away from being slapped down by the old enemies, I have to say it is always more horrifying to be beaten by Italy.  One particular year I treated my Dad and brothers to tickets to the Scotland-Italy home game.  We gave away 3 tries in the first 7 minutes.  That day we left the stadium, went to Rose Street to watch the rest of the day's matches and spent a happy several drunken hours pretending we were actually Irish to overcome our shame. 

One of my earliest childhood memories is of being sat down to the rugby with my Dad and taught to shout "Come - on - ie Blues!!  You're running the wrong way!"  How very sad that as I approach 30 I am preparing to train my as yet unborn child in much the same terms. 

The Six Nations has begun: welcome to frustration stations.