I have been very mindful of not turning my blog into an all singing all dancing pregnancy and baby zone, but today, I am afraid, I cannot ignore the thumping inside my womb.
I would like to say that I am one of those women who relishes every aspect of pregnancy, indeed they do exist. I see them often, they are always the ones that "bloom", develop a perfect little bump that actually makes them look pregnant, as opposed to the enormous all encompassing bulge that assaults every inch of my physical body and just makes me look fat. They relentlessly stroke said bump, with a twinkle in their eye as they toss their blooming silky hair and tell you that pregnancy is just wonderful! They always look slick and stylish despite said bump, and seem to glide through their pregnancy as though the 20 pound mass attached to their abdomen never once wreaked havok with their back. I wish I was she, alas I am not. Bitter? Moi? um, not much.
I love babie's, I am very excited about our little girl popping out, if not only to finally meet the little munchkin that I am so very curious about. But more than anything, I just want to get the damn thing out and into the open so I can feel like a normal human being again. All the time I struggle with the notion that I must be an evil, horrid mother to have such thoughts, because pregnancy is supposed to be beautiful, we are supposed to embrace the ultimate act of woman hood, and revel in the presence of the child within. If only...
So, anyway, I slept badly last night, actually, that's a lie, I didn't really sleep at all, I tossed and turned all night feeling as though my chest would implode, such was the horrendous never relenting burning sensation of pregnancy indigestion.
I mean who's flipping idea was it to put our womb in it's present position anyway? Right in the middle of our abdomen where it squeezes your bladder so tight that even a sip of tea has you running for the loo.... Right where it crushes your stomach into believing it is full after one bite of toast and thus promptly shoves all that hot indigested food back up your wind pipe, whos flipping idea was that?! Why not put it on our back? We might have a bump that likens us to something akin to The Hunchback of Notre Dam's long lost cousin, but at least our backs could hold the weight and there are no stomach muscles there to be assaulted into sagging like an old ladie's backside, leaving us with a tummy like a rotting piece of fruit that hangs somewhere in the knee region when the baby is finally ejected, so cruel .
When I finally dragged my weary body from my bed this morning, I was told by Simon that we had run out of milk. To any normal human being, I am sure this news would be met with no interest at all, perhaps a mere grumble about not being able to have the morning cuppa.
To a pregnant woman, for whom milk is the only respite for that dreaded indigestion, and is indeed the only thing she craves relentlessly, this was worse than an impending nuclear war.
Confronted with this information, and the realisation, having glanced out of the window, that it was once again raining, combined with a broken tumble dryer and a towering pile of dirty laundry was enough to send me flying over the edge of all rational thought.
My bottom lip quivered, and within seconds I was a heaving, sobbing mass of pregnant misery, much to Simon's dismay, he is never quite sure what to do when the hormones kick in, and seeing me in all my naked pregnant glory, slumped over the toilet sobbing like a child who lost their favourite teddy is perhaps, understandably, a somewhat disturbing sight to any man.
Aren't hormones a wonderful thing? The most irritating thing about such outbursts, is that at the time, when all that emotion comes tumbling out, it seems perfectly normal, and then afterwards I end up feeling just a wee bit silly and irrational, until next time...
On the few occasions that the sproglets have witnessed these displays of childish sobbing they have been both shocked and amused. 8 yr old Ambear tries very hard not to laugh at the sight of her mother blubbing like a baby as she contemplates an evening without tea, milk, or clean pyjamas. The poor Hoozel, aged 7 and slightly less world wise, and who thoroughly enjoys a good cry and all the attention it brings, takes it all very seriously and strokes my hair and hugs me with all the sympathy she can muster, all the time a look of complete innocence and naivety crosses her concerned little face.
To add insult to injury, my cat is pregnant. In my present hormonal state I even feel jealous of the way she seems to carry her baby weight to elegantly as she sashays to and fro, purring like a cat that got the effing cream, silently mocking my bulk. Smug cow.
Now that I am half way to the big day, my mind has turned to memories of child birth. Never has the term "Ignorance is bliss" seemed more true, when you are having your third child you know what lays ahead and being in a foreign country where they are still clinging to the archaic notion that women in the throes of labour should be on their backs with their feet in stirrups does nothing for my morale. Did you know it is actually illegal in France to intentionally give birth unassisted at home? Crazy world.
So, Simon has hidden himself away, from my hormonal rage, in his new home office (AKA Le Sad Caravan) - which is actually a touchy subject because, as you know, I had Le Caravan ear marked as a little guest retreat, it was to be my little decorating project whilst the house is rendered a No Decor Zone as a result of the impending extension and new roof. Hey ho.
The children are safely cosseted in their classroom away from the scary pregnant woman, and for but a few hours I can enjoy some peace, sans milk (sob), though having had no sleep, I suspect I am going to be one over tired hormonal wreck this evening, Poor Simon, Poor Sproglets, let your thoughts be with them, and thank your lucky stars today, that I don't live with you.