Category Archive

I have a picture of her tucked into the clear driver’s license window of my wallet.

Taken with my cell phone by her dad, hovering over us, exhausted and elated that she was finally here, some 50 hours after she decided it was time. It was minutes after they had sewn me up, each end of the calculated gash finished for some inexplicable reason with a glass bead that a midwife would later snip off to pull the suture through my skin with the flourish of a magician’s final act.

It’s the first one we put out into the world. I remember the moment like it was five minutes ago. Staring at the face of perfection, wondering how on earth I could have had a hand in creating something so utterly beautiful to look at. Are you sure she’s mine? Because she’s so stunning, I’m a little shocked. Laughing at the oversized snowsuit and mittens her father and a delivery nurse had dressed her in. I understood at once, finally, why I was put here. Her existence explained my own. Crystal clear and all mine - my purpose, all nine pounds and three ounces of her. My God, those cheeks. I’ve birthed a cherub.

The first few times that someone from behind a counter saw it as I pulled out money to pay for groceries or a grande bold, or let’s face it, a bottle of wine - I just smiled silently and handed over the cash. “Aw, bless!” or “What an angel!” And I would think, yes, in fact, you’re more right than you’ll ever know. An angel. Please don’t ask me how old she is. All I can tell you is how old she is supposed to be.

The pessimist in me says I should just take it out, to avoid the inevitable awkward conversation. Strangers don’t want to hear that she’s not here, or why. And I don’t want to force someone into averting their gaze, uncomfortable and mumbling they’re sorry. They’re just being friendly, exchanging common pleasantries that help pass the day. But I like looking at it. I have to look at it. So for now it stays, and I keep missing our angel.

She has kind eyes and a gentle manner, this woman tasked with sitting across from us to listen. She is patient and waits out the tears, tells us that every single thing, both the horrible and the hopeful, are indeed normal. I’ll go back.

I have the love of a remarkably brave and endlessly caring man. I don’t know what I did to deserve him.

We’re spending too much on the high end gym club in our office building, but I’m looking forward to being physically exhausted enough to sleep through the night more often. And if my marshmallow-like, pregnancy-marked middle shrinks even a little in the process, then all the better. I stare at the stretch marks in the mirror every morning and can’t bring myself to hate them. They were part of her journey here.

That when I occasionally remember to pause and turn my face toward the lately fleeting warmth of the sun, her cheeks are still in my own. If I just hold it out, her tiny hand will still curl around my finger for the strength I continue to seek.

I can’t hold her or protect the way I still ache to, and I may hate the world for it, but every detail of her perfect little being is etched permanently in my memory, like a fresh and vibrant tattoo across my broken heart.

I’m trying as hard as I can.

It’s been three months since Sadie died. I can say with certainty that time appears to move particularly slowly when you’re actually paying attention.

I have a job now, with Stuart’s company doing something I have little interest and absolutely no experience in. The two redeeming qualities of the position are of course a second income and also the fact that it gets me out of bed each morning (the whole point to begin with).

At the very least my commute, via the River Thames, offers a slice of calm and dignified beauty each morning.

It’s all I can do not to throw my hands up at times when the trivial nature of what I am doing compared to the gargantuan grief I am hiding become too blindingly obvious to ignore. And yet I don’t, somehow.

Somehow I keep going. Perhaps because I hope she’s watching, and I do still want her to be proud of her mother.

We’re trying our best to go on with life over here.

Sleep is still an issue but one I’m working on, with help. I am job hunting and interviewing, broadening my usual too-picky search to include new opportunities and challenges. I am admittedly trying to make things feel as different from before as I can, because I can’t let life continue the way it was, minus Sadie. That doesn’t work. It hurts way too much. Not to mention it just doesn’t exist.

We are buying concert tickets and dining out and having friends visit. Getting things on the schedule and having commitments outside of our grief. Going into the city more, just because. Making weekend plans with people. Some are still awkward around us, not really knowing what to say. I respect every effort and have come to understand how it sets us apart.

I am choosing to keep what I share in check, because I am afraid once I start that I will not be able to stop. That people will not want to hear it. Because the truth is, it is in fact the worst thing that could possibly happen. And it hurts accordingly. Still, thank God I married someone who refuses to let me give up. The rock who gives me reason and manages to be funny in spite of his broken heart. We are still able to smile and to laugh and for that I am both proud and grateful every day. We are getting through by leaning on each other.

I’m not yet sure if it’s all necessarily right, but it’s what we’re doing.

We have our return flights booked to England on Sunday, arriving in London at 6:30am Monday.

A huge part of me is dreading going back. Knowing I’ll likely be spending my 31st birthday, what would have been her 3 month old birthday, organizing and storing all of her things. Tucking them out of sight as though it might make the pain lessen not to see them as handily. I know we have to do it, no matter how difficult. It’s the right thing to do. If only I could pack the razor sharp knot of heartbreak that sits in the pit of my stomach away with them. But that would require her still being here, wouldn’t it.

We have been surrounded by doting friends and family here. Generous people offering a bed to sleep on, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. A comforting distraction that has helped me personally so tremendously that it’s impossible to accurately describe. I have felt safe here. Like being wrapped in an invisible warm hug; one that it’s going to kill me to pull away from.

I know life must go on. I also know that I don’t necessarily have to be happy about that just yet. Simply put, I will never be the same person again.

When I read about just how few babies are affected with what Sadie had, I want to tear my eyes out. I have also read that parents can’t help but blame themselves when they lose a child, no matter how impossible that may be. I do know now, I’m forced by fact and medical evidence to admit that nothing we could have done would have saved her precious little heart. No matter how ferociously I wanted to protect her.

My arms ache daily, by the minute, to have her in them.

Stu continues to tell me, “We couldn’t possibly have loved her more, Jenny. You couldn’t have loved her more than you did.” And I know he’s right. I loved her, and continue to love her, with every cell and fiber of my being. My own heart feels so thoroughly damaged some days that I secretly wonder if it will ever be whole again. But as each hour passes and I somehow magically survive it, I think it may actually be her that’s keeping it together still. Sadie is still with us, and her love keeps me going. I have to believe that. For her and thanks to her, I will choose to believe that.

I have such trouble sleeping now, once all of the day’s noise and distractions are gone and I’m left to my own devices. I can’t fall off into slumber within minutes, or deep breathe my way to dreams. What I do is lay in the darkness and think. And think some more. And before I know it all I want to do is sob, or rip away the part of my memory that haunts me. The last moments with Sadie pervade every other beautiful thing I try to remember about her. I suppose this is grief? What I do know is that up until now I’ve been utterly naive about just how much horrifying pain one person can hold inside.

.::.

“Cardiomyopathy is a chronic and sometimes progressive disease in which the heart muscle (myocardium), is abnormally enlarged, thickened and/or stiffened. The condition typically begins in the walls of the heart’s lower chambers (ventricles), and in more severe cases also affects the walls of the upper chambers (atria). The actual muscle cells as well as the surrounding tissues of the heart become damaged. Eventually, the weakened heart loses the ability to pump blood effectively and heart failure or irregular heartbeats (arrhythmias or dysrhythmia) may occur.”

“Cardiomyopathy is nondiscriminatory in that it can affect any adult or child at any stage of their life. It is not gender, geographic, race or age specific. It is a particularly rare disease when diagnosed in infants and young children.”

We were the goddamn needle in a haystack.

When I try to sort out my thoughts in the midst of a painful moment I realize one feeling is standing out. It’s strongest during one of two times. At night, when I try in vain for hours to fall asleep. Second, when I see happy strangers carrying their beautiful babies, contented smiles on their faces. I realize the dull ache that I can’t seem to shake is a feeling of uselessness. There was something I was supposed to be doing now. I had prepared through long months for it. I had dreamt about it, longed for it, studied for it. I believed I was meant to do it. I believed I would be good at it when the time came, and believe I wasn’t half bad when it did. I was supposed to be taking care of her now. Now and for the rest of my life.

It feels as though someone came along and ruthlessly ripped my future straight out of my arms. They dangle at my sides more now, when they should be holding her, feeding her. Keeping her safe. The instinct is still so strong I can’t help but think that I somehow didn’t do my job properly, because if I had she’d be resting her head in my neck still, right where I could continue falling in love with the feeling of her breath against my skin. Fast asleep because it was her favourite spot, the only spot that ever seemed to soothe her, right up until the end.

I’m not easily fooled. I know when someone senses me start to lose concentration and changes the subject abruptly. They ask me a question about something completely unrelated as though trying to ease my brain away from some unknown sad thought they will never understand. And I suppose that’s fine, I never want to be that person who can’t function or is no longer tolerable to be around. I understand their intentions are kind enough: keep her occupied, keep her thinking about happier things, or any thing. Anything else.

I could easily scream or bite or break sometimes. Anything in my wake should be destroyed because I lost her and fuck you, it’s just not fair. It’s the most unfair thing anyone ever could possibly think of in the history of life. She was perfect and beautiful and unbelievably funny. She was mine. And it’s so cruel that I want revenge on a nameless, faceless entity responsible for her not being here.

Instead I breathe. Maybe I medicate or drink too much. I find a way to force it to pass until the next time. You’ll just have to forgive me for it while it remains. Because I just couldn’t care less about what anyone thinks. My anger is much too strong for that.

New distractions are keeping me from even thinking straight, let alone being able to update here. Maybe I’ll take a break, maybe I’ll be back tomorrow. Either way I’m humbled and so very grateful for the shocking amount of support shown to us through this site, via comments and private email. I think it helps. At the very least it opens my eyes to the idea that such pain is not unheard of, nor is it uncommon, and that the kindness of strangers sharing their lives is more comforting than one would expect.

What counts right now is that Stu and I are taking each day at a time, and we’re doing it together.

On a streetcar up Market Street. On Ocean Beach, where the sound of the water was the only thing I could hear. The only sound to drown out me crying out. On a plane, where the sound of a baby crying 12 rows back startled me upright from a fitful sleep.

It’s hitting me without warning, in random places, and hard. Grief can be very physical I’ve learned; it can burn right through to your fingertips. Some mornings I let a little white pill dissolve under my tongue in the hopes that I may mellow, and I do. And then there it is again. Her funeral was only days ago. She’s been gone barely weeks. I want her back. I understand how that can never happen.

I am in San Francisco, California. A trip organized by my doting, pained husband to get away from everything and everyone. Knowing full well when he booked it that it would follow us everywhere anyway, sit beside us under palm trees and among the flowers in Golden Gate Park.

I’ve learned that this is intimate, what we’re feeling, and after today I’ll be asking his permission as to what I share, but I do know I’ve been aching for a journal of some sort. I could fill hundreds of pages for what feels like thousands of years. Never be fooled by a calm exterior.

I can’t even sort out what to say because my mind won’t shut off. One set of thoughts is almost immediately replaced by another. We’ve been walking and talking and sharing and the one thing that will remain solid in this is he and I. And he is my reason. My reason, period. Life goes on because of him.

I’ve been told how strong I am. So many times. And I’m glad, as I don’t want anyone else to have to suffer because I am. But what goes on in my head and my heart scares me so much. I miss her so much. I ache for her.

We took a taxi today, from the beach to Fisherman’s Wharf where we’re staying. The driver’s young son sat in the back so I squeezed between him and Stu for the ride. It was minutes before I gave him a piece of gum and asked him his name before he fell asleep, his head on my shoulder. It hit me again. And I wanted to tell his father when I crawled out of his yellow car: cherish him, love him, hold him. You just never know.

But that would have been just a crazy woman ranting before paying her fare.

I have no interest in figuring out how to start, continue, or end this.

We have lost Sadie, our precious, perfect, beautiful little girl, to a rare and cruel heart disease. We have had seven days of hell but will both be eternally grateful for the time spent with her before we were forced to say goodbye.

My sweetest little Munchie, my Birdie, is gone. I’m certain I don’t even have a heart left to say it’s been broken.

A little different than my last photo.

Happy one month birthday to Sadie and four year anniversary to her incredible Dad. Time does indeed fly.

I love my life.

If you can get past the annoying clicking sound in the background from my ageing little Nikon, turn the volume up. I think it’s time I break out the real video camera.

Is it okay to be continuously laughing at your child’s expense?

This weekend wrapped up Stu’s second and final parental leave week. He’d been taking over the 7am first bottle feed of the day for me, followed by a lounging cuddle in bed with Sadie. During that hour I was able to multi-task like a champ - fitting in showering, sterilizing bottles, laundry, and whatever else I could (read: sucking back an entire bodum of Starbucks).

That luxury came to a cruel and startling end when he walked out the door at an obscenely early hour this morning.

I’m now officially on a “shower and eat if and when possible” regime. My kid does not like to be put down in anything for very long. The upside of this being I should have biceps of steel by spring. The downside can be filed under Crazy By Noon. Lucky for me it’s Easter this weekend and that might only mean being dirty for four days. They don’t call it Good Friday for nothing.

Like most newborns her nails are jagged and sharp and need cutting every week or so - a task I look forward to about as much as I would a root canal. She doesn’t seem to mind the socks in the meantime.

This picture is a prime example of me spending precious nap time in all the wrong ways. When I should be doing things like cleaning or I don’t know, paying closer attention to personal hygiene, before I know it an hour has passed and the only thing I’ve accomplished is memorizing the curve of her nose or swooning over her perfect little pink mouth.

Can you blame me? Look at that face. I’m ruined for life.

Although she slept through the whole process yesterday, so I spoke on her behalf.

Next up: her own passport.

Have a lovely weekend.

I thought watching Stu put this together last night was the highlight of my week. That was until this morning, when she was gently rocked from Screaming Banshee the Morning Fusspot to Mama’s Sleeping Sweetheart.

Gave her parents enough time to scarf down some breakfast and caffeine even.

God bless Fisher Price.

Now I’m off to buy shares in Duracell.

They say in several of the books I’ve collected that there is typically a growth spurt around three weeks. Judging by the 67 bleary-eyed feed and burp sessions we endured last night, I guess she may be right on track with her first one.

What does that little sleep do to you? It was the kind of night that made me pick up a book that’s been sitting on the shelf since August when my sister-in-law bought it for me. It’s called, “Babyproofing Your Marriage.” Yowsa.

And then she does a cute, floppy little pose like this and it gets her dad out of bed at 4am, running downstairs for the camera.

She also has a leaky tear duct and the start of her first cold. She’s brand new. How she could have possibly caught a cold is literally BEYOND my realm of understanding. As if the universe didn’t know I do not need something new to worry about.

Pass me a cup of coffee.

I am on my own for the first time today.

Solo.

Independent.

As mother to another human. Me.

Wow.

Wish her luck.

My mom heads back to Canada tomorrow.

After two weeks of soothing takeovers when I need a break, insanely delicious evening dinners, 743 loads of laundry, and organizing EVERYTHING, she is leaving. If Stu didn’t have his second parental leave off next week I think I’d be having a breakdown right now. I am going to miss the security that comes with waking up to her in the next room. Having a drowsy cup of tea and chat in between battles. I’m really going to miss how Sadie smells like her familiar, reassuring Burberry smell when she hands her back to me. Thank you, Mama.

.::.

I’m not sure why I jinxed myself by saying we have a mellow baby the other day, cause WOW kid’s got her mama’s temper and her daddy’s flair for NOT LETTING THINGS GO. …EVER. It’s been a rough few days, sleep-wise. But she’s two weeks old and she actually coo’d yesterday when we laid her in between us in bed. Meaning she was actually awake and not feeding/crying for a whole ten minutes. Small wonders.

It’s tough, this parenting thing. I’m either pretty tired or full blown exhausted 100% of the time. And my baby? Doesn’t care. She now eats every two hours, rotating between breastfeeding and supplemental formula bottles. Sometimes she likes to draw those feeds out by falling asleep in between every three sucks or so on the boob, her head bobbing like a little milky mouthed drunk. When it’s bottle time she tends to really get into the whole pooping thing. She’ll pause to burp and let out an insanely hilarious grunt while she pushes south of the border, turning her little cheeks a deep adorable crimson.

Yep, I’m calling my kid’s bowel movements adorable. Life as I knew it is over. Really, I’m just glad to be talking about someone else’s poop after nine long months.

I have been snagging online time here and there in snippets, reading email and checking Facebook and researching my latest baby related paranoia. A number of women recommended an herbal supplement called Fenugreek for getting one’s milk supply up. Being that it is totally natural I set off to see my little Indian lady friend at the pharmacy, who hooked me up with a knowing smile. I’m taking 3 capsules a day, and it is indeed working. Except for the one side effect of smell. Fenugreek is typically used as a seed in Indian cooking. Opening the bottle and inhaling sends you straight to New Delhi. Lifting my arms for a sniff after an insane day of newborn maintenance is like winning a week’s vacation there.

Yummy mummy I’m not quite yet. But somehow it is fitting, considering how well stinky goes with greasy ponytail and milk stained pajama pants.

Have a great weekend.

The front wheel of our stroller fell right off repeatedly during our first big walk this weekend. My poor mother had to keep bending over and trying to stick it back on while I nervously held on for dear life from the handle, praying my kid wouldn’t somehow slide out onto to the sidewalk.

Needless to say, we returned it and demanded a full refund. The new one - a different brand - should be delivered by Friday.

Now that she seems to be getting enough to eat, Sadie is turning into quite a mellow little munchkin, sleeping well in two and four hour stints with only the occasional fussy moment. I realize how lucky we are, and that I should knock on wood, and of course that this is probably a fleeting moment. So be it - at least I get to catch up on rest while it keeps up.

I’m also glad to report that our first (fur)baby is slowly getting used to her smaller, occasionally quite loud baby sister.

Throughout the day of and the day following Sadie’s birth by emergency c-section, I was hopped up on liquid morphine and immobile - catheter and all. I was instructed not to lift her in or out of her hospital crib, so I had to ring for a midwife any time she cried or I just felt the need to give her a cuddle. I actually try not to think about that 48 hour period for various reasons I won’t get into, but I also don’t remember blocks of time anyway so that helps. If you can call it helping.

At one point Stu, my brother, and his girlfriend were visiting and Sadie’s diaper needed changing. Rather than call the midwife my dear husband decided it was a now or never moment and changed it himself. I can barely be heard giving weak instructions as he sloooowly makes his way through it and my brother sternly reminds me not to laugh (hello, massive lower-belly incision).

This four minutes may not mean much to anyone who doesn’t know him, but for me I couldn’t be more grateful that the moment is caught forever on tape. Also, I can watch it now without worrying how hard I laugh. Thanks Bro.

I think considering my post surgery pain level and official duntz-level parenting skills I’ll just be posting mostly pictures this week as I continue to heal and find my feet as a mum. Who knew reading every book you could get your hands on would end up meaning nothing at all the second you’re sent home with a real life baby in your arms. I’d bet that winning a Pulitzer might be slightly easier than learning to properly breastfeed, and setting a schedule is still eluding me, but we’re working hard on it. And when we’re not working hard, well, we’re sleeping it off. The several days of literally no sleep and plenty of physical pain have left me in a state of exhaustion I had no idea existed.

I’m nervous and scared witless repeatedly throughout each day. And then I nuzzle my nose into her neck or smell a cheek or smooch a set of tiny perfect toes and my heart literally feels as though it might explode with more love than it’s able to hold.

Sadie finally arrived on the 20th at 10:43am weighing a whopping 9lbs 3oz. We had a bit of a rough go and are just home from hospital today but all is well with babe and parents.

I’m madly in love.

I woke up with a strong cramp I mistook for having to wee around 12:30 last night. I’d actually been sleeping soundly for once, so I cursed my bladder and enlisted Stu to help push me into an upright position.

Half way to the toilet found me ripping my pajama pants off while shouting, “Holy shi*t my water is breaking,” and leaving a trail of baby juice in my wake.

We have been to the labour ward and back. Told to return when I’m getting two within a ten minute period. No contractions to speak of, only cramps just painful enough to make me think she may have inherited her father’s sense of direction. Meaning she’s currently attempting to mistakenly map her route out the back end instead, because Holy. Oh. OUCH. The lower back pain so far is seriously intense as predicted.

In the meantime I’m sipping lemon ginger tea and watching the father of my child Wii bowl. It’s 8:30am here.

Wish us luck.

I’ve been up since 4:11 a.m.

A year ago if you would have told me my sleep patterns were going to turn out this way I’d have laughed. A new country combined with a carefree Pinot Grigio habit tends not to allow for such early hours.

It’s amazing what you can get done before the rest of your world wakes up. I think I’ll be posting more than once today.

Update

WOW. I’m so impressed that my wonderful neighbours on the other side of the wall are having their floors resanded all day.

That and the fact that my flipping cervix is still so high that the midwife could barely even find it today make for one peaceful, satisfying afternoon. I’m off to nap; maybe if I’m lucky I’ll dream of sawdust and my apparently looming induction.

Awesome.

Ah. Almost forgot.

I’m carrying a midget sumo wrestler, for those interested. She’s already approximately 8.5lbs. Babies this age can gain up to an ounce a day. If I don’t give birth until the newly assigned induction date, that’s 7 more ounces. I’ll let you do that math.

Two things today.

First.

Because I do believe this is her year, I’m going to take it upon myself to follow Tamara’s meme. Sorry, her MeeMee. I always thought it was pronounced mem, like men with an m on each end. ANYWAY. Here are the rules.

I’m dangerously close to the end of The Autograph Man by Zadie Smith. I’ve read and recommended On Beauty by her previously. I love her writing and admire what she’s achieved at such a young age. I say dangerously close because I’ve been zipping through novels lately what with all the insomnia, etc. and don’t think there is anything else on my shelves that I haven’t read, except for God of Small Things - but I know not to take that on at the moment, until I’ll be able to dedicate the time I’d like to it. Luckily, my brother is making the trip from Liverpool tomorrow, and can hopefully bring me one or two of his to borrow. Hint, hint.

I really, really, really love to read. Paired with a steaming cup of coffee mid-morning on a weekend, a good book is like an all expense paid vacation for me. I really hope I still get to fit it in once The One Who Shall Remain Nameless and Apparently Too Comfortable In Utero has arrived.

Anyway, here we are, from page 123:

‘Yes. Blasphemy aside, that was sort of my feeling.’

‘There is a new addition to the view. Not really part of the view as such. Too close to be effectively viewed. More like something that you’re almost in. Two more steps to the left and its great mouth could swallow your head and still be hungry for more.’

She’s talking about a huge pipe illegally placed at the window of one of the main character’s apartment. It relentlessly pumps the smell of fried chicken into his flat.

I’m going to throw caution to the wind and skip the tagging of five people as well, mostly because so many of my readers are not bloggers themselves. I suppose that means they could email their meme, but what fun is there in that?

Second.

I believe I’ll be faced with a decision tomorrow when I turn up at the hospital at 10am. Technically my appointment is for both a discussion with one of the community midwives and also to endure a procedure called a sweep. I’ll spare you the technical details of what that entails except to say it involves considerable discomfort, stirrups, and is meant to help spur on labour.

In reality, being 41 weeks pregnant on Saturday, I can also make an appointment to be induced, possibly for as early as that evening. Being induced requires me to essentially throw my entire birth plan out the window in order to be at the mercy of an IV drip that will not only bring on labour fast and furiously, but most times does not allow the pain to build as it would in a natural birth. You skip that first step, where your body has the chance to slowly and surely release the endorphins that aid in one’s pain endurance.

From what I have been told, here in the UK many more labours brought on by induction end with epidurals and medical interventions than do not. I have the right to wait until I am 42 weeks and hope I go into labour naturally as well. But if I did so and ended up being induced anyway, I’d probably kick myself for not just biting the bullet, so to speak.

On the up side, it usually takes less time. And I’d finally get to meet my baby, perhaps finally be a mum by end of weekend.

I’m torn on this one. And terrified.

According to the books and web sites, I believe I had what one could call a false start last night. More severe back pain, cramping, feeling weighed down as though something was going to fall out of me at any given moment. All without the gas of last time. I paced the house, bounced on the ball, breathed deeply. Ate a few cookies. When no progress seemed to be taking place we went to bed. I could have bawled with disappointment.

This morning I feel like crap; nauseous and as though I’m bruised all over my lower half. And I’m actually sitting here hoping it gets worse. I’ve lost my mind.

Of course if it were to happen any day this week it would be today, when Stu is all the way in the city instead of his usual ten minute drive home.

Fingers crossed.

My goal for today is simple: get through it without whining. I thought instead I’d show off my gargantuan status as of 40 + 3.

The pink really helps accentuate my watermelonly curves, wouldn’t you agree?

Last night I was sure labour had started.

La Munchkin was throwing a full blown tantrum - all feisty arm and leg blows to my bladder and lungs. I had brutal cramps and a backache. I had to concentrate on breathing properly. I allowed myself to get hopeful and a bit excited.

In reality, I had gas.

Every time I went from a seated or laying back position to standing, a trucker-worthy belch would burst forth out of me. I had little or no control over it. I had just finished an entire pot of loose raspberry leaf tea, the supposed wonderdrug among the natural birthing set. I’ve gone through a full box of it now over the past two weeks. It looks like weed and smells like dirty socks. With a generous dose of honey it’s chuggable.

The woman I bought it from occupies the back corner of a small pharmacy not far from our house. She is a tiny Indian motherly type with soft eyes and an easy smile. When I first requested it, she asked how many weeks along I was and said to bring the baby back to see her when I could. Her area of the store smells faintly of incense and is lined with drawers holding leafy mysteries labelled with names I’ve never seen before. The shelves hold mainly tiny glass bottles filled with coloured liquids. These are left unlabelled - she must know them by scent. It all has a very Harry Potter-ish, rebellious feel to it.

I think I may waddle back and see what else she has to offer to a desperate woman with an open mind. You never know.

I actually feared I was going the way of the Britney last night, trying unsuccessfully to sleep - scaring myself awake with choking snorts and the “funny noises” I was hearing. In my mind. Exhausted to the point that I’d hit a dream state almost instantly, only to be torn from it with my next deep breath in. Sleep deprivation is way too effective as a means of torture. This does not bode well for imminent labour.

What’s my problem, you ask? The Cold from Hell is back. Not yet full force. Enough that my voice is almost gone, my throat parched and painful. Lingering around the corner, peeking out from under the bed, it’s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. I am supposed to push new life forth from my terrified girly bits any minute and now I’m being tapped of any sort of energy reserve. All I can do is worry like it’s my job and nod off occasionally while sitting up. Perfect.

Tonight I’m expected to head out into the world for dinner at a nice Italian restaurant in a neighbouring village. As much as I’d rather eat Ruby’s food than put makeup on and “do” my hair, I do need to get out of this house. I sincerely hope that pajama pants are listed as an acceptible form of attire. It’s either that or I wrap myself in a tarp to hide my rolled down, hovering below the bump maternity jeans. With a coordinating pashmina tossed artfully over it to conceal my triple chin.

Maybe if I feign labour pains I’ll get a free dessert or two.

Em, what else. This post needs something remotely positive, agreed. Behold the cuteness:

Some perfectly adorable sheets and a bumper arrived this morning, nabbed in an online sale for 50% off. I love the pale apple green and pink paisley together. Aside from a mobile we’ll get sometime in the near future, I think we’ve covered all of our bases. Now we just need the kid to go with it all.

And then if we could just agree on a name.

Back to the midwife today. Someone new.

Baby’s head has un-engaged (probably not a word). Vague comments about her being big and taking that into account during birth. WTF? No real explanation even when pushed on it. Had to physically restrain myself from slapping her forceful hands away. Appointment made to discuss being induced next Friday.

I am so not into this waiting thing. I’m not losing faith that my little one’ll show up on time, but damn it’s hard to be optimistic with sciatic pain shooting through my ass cheek straight to my toes and heartburn that would flatten an elephant.

Committed to dinner out with friends tomorrow night and booked a reflexology appointment for Saturday afternoon. Here’s hoping I’ve got to cancel. In the meantime I’m kicking the natural inducing techniques into high gear. Also working on an attitude adjustment.

Suggestions are welcome.

I’m working on the theory that because I’m so anal about being on time, usually early, that my daughter will show up either early or at the very least on her due date. Hence the four day countdown. And yes, I know that first babies tend to take their time - up to two weeks in fact - but we just won’t be having any of that around here. All clear? She will also make her timely appearance smoothly, head first, and after approximately 3 pushes and a grunt.

.:.

I’ve taken to snoring again - a loud, choking, snorting chortling mess of a snore that Stu likes to impersonate much to my embarassment. The remnants of the Cold From Hell have me still a bit stuffy and boy oh boy it actually wakes me with a startle occasionally. Perfect for someone currently sleeping in 47-minute intervals.

.:.

We made the big (for us) decision to drop Ruby at the kennel yesterday until after the babe’s arrival. It’s no secret that our dog is incredibly high maintenance and we choose to love her anyway. Lately even with a walker helping to burn off some of her endless energy, she’s been a bit too much for my lumbering gait to catch up to. It’s caused much frustration on my part and a resulting severe turn in her affection once someone walks through the door at night. Our days have been like this: she misbehaves constantly while he’s gone. He comes home thinking I exaggerate her behaviour and falls prey to her cuddlefest on the sofa after dinner until bed. She stares me down from behind heavy-lidded hound eyes, groaning with pleasure as Stu rubs her ears. I feel as though she knows what’s coming and sees me as a traitor.

Not having to worry about her this week is helping me sleep better already. Somehow I already miss her at the same time. Bitch played the hard to get card and I totally fell for it.

.:.

I’m routinely waking up ravenous now.

Like, stomach-growling-holy-crap-starvation-mode at 3am. Toast and peanut butter with half a gallon of milk in front of the tv at midnight after only two hours of sleep. Asian pears get crunched through in seconds - I can’t get enough of those things. Cookies are NOT safe at any time of day, particularly chocolate digestives. Stu makes us fresh fruit smoothies every morning now - I slurp one back as a precursor to my tomato cream cheese bagel at 7am. Pizzas have been ordered for dinner because I don’t think I can make it another day without melted cheese and onions. Homemade vindaloo curries with fresh greek yogurt are devoured, even when I know I will not sleep that night with the heartburn it’ll cause. Pineapples by the chunk in minutes. Grilled red meat? WATCH. OUT.

It’s insane. My knees creak and just the day before yesterday I was asked once again if I am carrying twins. Yeah, baby.

It was the first email I opened after logging on this morning, settling down with a cup of tea and a plate holding both a huge asian pear and a miniature chocolate eclair.

“Insert Baby Name Here was born yesterday at 3:50pm, weighing seven pounds and seven ounces, etc etc.”

It was extremely detailed, sent only to us and the other two couples we attended class with. They knew we’d all want to know - did she get an epidural? Were there any complications? Details about not having been prepared for the total brutality of the childbirth experience - of course followed by how one soon forgets once one holds her for the first time. The pain, the number of stitiches (both internal and external). It was all there. Explicit yet somehow reserved, as only a Brit could pull off.

Cue my panic button, forcefully overridden by my typed congratulatory response - cheerful, excited. I hit send and make a mental note to tell Stu. I breathe deeply and read it again, details quickly stored to memory. Two of us down, two to go. I am the last one, according to our due dates.

One hour I am strong and calm, confident in my ability to endure. I know it is pain with both a good cause and an actual end. The next hour fear of the unknown washes over me like a hot shower I can’t control or escape. The only known solution I’ve got is to calm the hell down, because I have no say in the matter. Except that is easier said than done, isn’t it.

Her head is engaged and as of Saturday we’re on the 7-day countdown. Can I get a WOOT! WOOT!

That white band around the waist of my khakis? Now worn daily to make up for the 3 inch gap between the top of my pants and bottom of my shirts.

It’s THAT big.

I so desperately want to have something interesting to say here but at this stage my mind is all pregnancy, all the time. There have been no developments, unless you count an infection that had me in hospital for many, many hours Friday night. Thank you, Christmas Cold From Hell and your silly rounds of antibiotics, from the very bottom of my heart. Seriously.

I was left sitting behind a curtain in the labour ward trying to get comfortable on one of those damn beds, freezing, worried, alone and hungry. An hour earlier I had demanded Stu go home to Ruby after sitting with me for the first three. Now he was on his way back with fruit and granola bars. I love that we live a five-minute ride from the hospital.

I listened to a young french woman seethe her way through several contractions on the other side of the room. Not twenty minutes earlier we had exchanged excited smiles, acknowledging each other’s bellies as I sat in the waiting room and she walked past in her pajamas, beside her pale-faced, terrified-looking husband. Now I heard her demand a nurse, saying her waters had broken and asking if she could have some gas and air. “No, love,” came the well-versed answer. “You’re only one centimetre, and your waters have not broken. That’s likely your hind waters leaking slowly, but you’ve a long way to go, love. How about we run you a warm bath instead?”

I bolted up on my paper-sheeted bed. HOLD ON. I’m sorry. Hind-WHAT-NOW? Why have I not seen this term in one of the 300 books I’ve read? Am I a horse? Since when, hind? Is this a weirdo English thing? I cocked my head to one side and pushed my ear out, attempting to hear more. But there was nothing. I caught the squeak of the nurse’s crocs walk away. I leaned back with a grunt and rubbed my belly reassuringly, but with a perplexed feeling about me.

Ten minutes passed. Frenchie was quiet; maybe resting. And then you know what? I decided that I don’t even care anymore. If I find out the details of one more thing that is supposedly going to leak, squeeze, tear, or rush out of me, I might just give up on this whole damn endeavour. And honestly, I don’t have the energy anymore. I don’t actually sleep anymore. I nod off for minutes at a time before waking myself with a loud snort/snore, or the urge to pee one whole teaspoon at a time. I need to save up what energy is left for the inevitable marathon labour fiasco and let fate take its course. And somehow stay calm. And patient.

Uh, yeah.

From this point forward I am no longer responsible for rampant, incoherent babbling on this site. I haven’t slept more than an hour straight in days and am now the constant recipient of unsolicited remarks from complete strangers about my size. Hello, Mr. Hospital Caretaker Whose 5′4 Wife Has Given You Six Children: I DON’T CARE THAT SHE WAS NEVER THIS BIG AND YES, I KNOW THAT’S “A WHOLE LOTTA WEIGHT!” TO BE CARRYING AROUND.

Also? I shuffle. That side-by-side meandering walk of someone whose gut no longer allows them to walk with one foot before the other? That’s me. Hang on a sec while I shuffle on over to the cupboard for a Weight Watchers cookie (an utter joke when you eat 12 a day) before shuffling past the kettle for a cup of tea on my way to sit my fat ass down before I break a sweat from all this damn SHUFFLING.

And, breathe.

This morning I had to lift the toaster in order to peer in and check the status of my bagel. Stu, sitting at the table with his own already, asked, “Do you have to do that because you can’t lean over it?” I wanted to lift it just a bit higher - say, over my head - and toss it at his chin. No. NO I cannot reach, just like I have to lean on my elbows to do dishes and stand on one foot to apply makeup, because between my three feet of belly and the two of any random countertop or sink, the only other solution is a set of Go Go Gadget Arms.

Yet another late scan yesterday, after my midwife measured the bump on the large end. “We want to make sure we know what size we’re looking at, if her head and shoulders are big I might want you in the hospital rather than at home.” And no, I don’t think I’m staying at home anymore, so if one more person wants to ask me if I’m crazy, I’d probably suggest right here and now THAT YOU DON’T. Most births go off course from what Mum plans midway on the big day; mine is teetering over the edge of a cliff and I’m not even in labour yet.

ANYWAY. Back to babe?

She’s a cute little alien-looking thing, approximately 6 pounds, 13 ounces at the moment. If I make it to forty weeks she’ll likely be seven and a half pounds. Just what I like to hear: AVERAGE. Let us all say a prayer that she does not take after my side when it comes to the size of her noggin. Still praying for smooth water birth with minimal intervention. At which point I will finally get to hug my little human rather than folding my arms across the girth that is my belly, hoping she feels the affection radiate through the gallons and gallons of baby juice currently separating us.

And speaking of cute. This is how I found Ruby in our bed this morning. She is highly skilled at burrowing her way under to get cozy all on her own. The thread count doesn’t quite meet her standard, but it’ll do in a pinch.

This arrived yesterday. As if on cue, little miss Munchkin has moved from the boob region to the belly button region, kicking and squirming and line dancing her way into her latest position. I dare say I think if she gets her way she’ll arrive before she’s due, but that’s very likely wishful thinking on my part.

I nested all weekend. Organized in ways I wasn’t aware I was capable of, loving every minute. And ate McDonald’s for the second time during my pregnancy. That junk is NOT welcome again in this bod, where what feels like battery acid laced with chili powder and jalapenos routinely snakes its way up my throat the second I lay horizontally. Big Mac Big SCHMACK I say. Hand me a freakin’ pear.

Being in the safety of my own home and going out only in the company of my dear husband has done wonders for my state of mind. I was obviously sorely unprepared for the level of vulnerability one feels in the final weeks. This point has always seemed so far away that I didn’t think much about it until I was smack in the middle, totally unaware of how it would affect me. The sheer size of my stomach - the way it starts here and ends three blocks away - is intimidating. People see me and their eyes widen before they take an exaggerated step around me. I define Ready to Pop.

I think we have an image in our minds of ourselves; of how much space we take up in a room or in a car or in a bed. When I no longer fit somewhere or I smack into a corner or countertop with all the grace of a lit hippo, it’s shocking and embarassing and difficult. When it happens for the 20th time on any given day, it reduces me to frustrated tears. It makes me wonder where the old strong and capable ME is in all of this, and will she ever be back? And then I threaten to break something, at which point Stu kicks into gear, sending me to a chair and clicking on the kettle. I have no idea how women do this alone.

Needless to say, I’m looking forward to Munchkin’s arrival. I’ll own my birth alright. I’ll own it like no one’s ever owned it before, because knowing it’s all going to be over soon is all the incentive I need.

I know it’s wrong, and I’m not saying I’m actually going to do it, but there’s a part of me that is dying to call Stu up at the office screaming, “IT’S TIME! IT’S TIME! IT’S TIME! GET HOME NOW, IT’S TIME!”

Mean? Yes. Super Duper Fun? Absolutely.

Might not be the best time to give him a heart attack though, what with all the upcoming dirty diapers to change. That he thinks he won’t have to touch. Ha! Man’s going to have to pretend it’s mustard and breathe through his mouth I say.

Tomorrow we have a full day of the second half of our antenatal class. Part two wraps up the labour process and focuses on the first days and weeks with baby. We’re so focused on the big day that it’s almost hard to grasp what it will be like the second it’s all over and I’m no longer pregnant after being so for three quarters of a YEAR. Poof, just like that. In place of all the physical ailments and annoyance I’ve been complaining about will be a real live tiny human being for us to take care of… for the next several decades of our lives. Sort of makes the idea of labour pale in comparison.

Right?

Let’s call it a working title for now but it will be something along the lines of, “Now That I Know I’m Gonna Tell, You Dirty Rotten Bastards: Breaking the Silence Surrounding Pregnancy”.

Chapter Twelve Two Words: Skin Tags
Chapter Thirteen Ninth Month RAGE
Chapter Fourteen What to do when your knees finally give out from your proposterous body weight at 4am as you try to get up from the toilet following your eighteenth GODDAMN WIZZ OF THE NIGHT

None of which I’ll discuss here today, but let me tell you, it would be a page turning breakthrough. The modern woman’s bible.

Also? In direct relation to Chapter Thirteen, suffice it to say there are just some things I’ll no longer be doing without the companionship of my loyal husband.

Like leaving the house.

BELLAY!!

Have a great weekend.

8:16 am We have breakfast together on a weekday for the first time in months. Ruby is entirely suspicious of my clean, showered smell happening before 10am. Fine, before noon.

9:25 am We’re dropped off by a mini-cab at the end of the street because we’re 35 minutes early. I am wearing a coat that hasn’t done up since September and carrying a huge striped pillow from the Martha Stewart Collection. My anal personality is the reason we’re early. It’s cold, really windy, and I feel like a tool.

9:35 am After walking for 10 minutes in my own shoes I’m rendered borderline hysterical inside but refuse to show it. F*ck it - we’re early, let’s do this. We arrive apologizing and I practically kick my shoes off across the entrance in this stranger’s house.

9:45 am The second and third couple show up. The last one is right on time at three minutes to ten.

11:00 am We’ve all been introduced and are sipping tea, me being the only woman who doesn’t request decaf. I feel like a tool.

12:04 The class leader passes around a shopping bag to the husbands, filled with approximately 25 pounds of weight in olive oil, flour, and other non-perishables. She explains that this is what their wives have had to lug around on their frames as it’s the average weight gain by end of pregnancy. She proceeds to add, “Of course some are less, some are more.” I swear she glances my way on the last word and I feel a bit like a tool. Still, I want her to wrap the hell up as promised so we can break to HAVE OUR DAMN LUNCH ALREADY.

12:35 The six of us eat our brown bag lunches and chat comfortably. The room has loosened up considerably after the inevitable “first poo following birth” conversation. There’s no going back now. The men bond over sandwiches and joke about using our laughing gas masks during labour.

1:00 pm Clearly relieved to have eaten, the women seem to talk freely until Class Leader pulls out a doll representing in size and weight what a seven pound baby feels like. She passes it around the room and I’m struck that anyone who has ever seen the Discovery Channel would have also seen baby elephants that are smaller. I quietly wish for a six pounder.

1:30 We’re broken off into groups by sex and told to list what we think we’ll need from our partners during D-day. I’m on chocolate biscuit number three and my swollen feet are up on a chair for relief. The tall thin blonde with endless legs looks at me with what I guess is sympathy as she effortlessly crosses them under herself on a bean bag chair. She is serene. She is due in less than two weeks. I try to like her anyway.

3:04 We’ve now gone through the basic pain relief methods and their benefits/risks. The huge list Class Leader has written out starts with a glass or two of wine and ends with epidural. After five hours of discussion I’m considering a home birth for the first time. I wonder how Stu will react when I tell him. Four weeks left and there is still no way I’ll allow that ginormous needle in my spine.

4:11 Class is ending and after a lengthy conversation mainly about how much pain we’re soon to endure, Class Leader asks us to share one thing we’re really looking forward to about becoming a parent. She is making her vain attempt to lighten the cloud of fear hanging over the room. She starts with my husband, who is taken by surprise and asks her to go around the circle the other way first. For the ninth time that day, I feel like a tool. He makes up for it on his second go.

4:25 We say goodbye to the couple who have kindly given us a lift home. The men have been talking football while she and I discuss the day. We’re due a day apart at the same hospital. I enjoy the ease with which we chat and wonder if we might become friends. We get to the door and my first words are to ask what the hell we’re going to eat and how quickly it can be in my hands.

6:00 We sit in front the news and eat bowls of homemade mac and cheese that would put Emeril to shame. My feet are propped up and my glass of juice is refilled before I have to ask. We both admit we enjoyed the day, mainly because of how normal the other couples are. Partly because it involved zero role playing or breathing exercises. I’m ridiculously content and in love with my husband.

7:30 Unable to take the strain of my jeans any longer, I yank them off and toss them aside. I am too tired to climb the stairs for pajamas. I pull a blanket over my legs, but not before Stu catches a glimpse of them in full light. His eyes widen. They’re ghostly white from anemia and winter and considerably plumper than usual, particularly by this time of day. He recovers and I think he is going to leave well enough alone. Minutes pass and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

7:32 “Wow your legs are really… pregnant.”

9:47 I am curled up on my side in the spare bedroom, where the mattress is softer under my bump and I can starfish my limbs if the need arises. Seems getting up 72 times a night for trips to the bathroom and the deep, animalistic grunting that accompanies any sort of changing positions wakes the working man. I stare at the clock wondering how much sleep I’ll actually get this time, wishing for morning to come quickly. Only because it means we’ll be another day closer.

GREAT news. The last remaining part of my body not previously overtaken by The Pregnancy has finally succombed. By 5pm every day my feet are twice their normal size and tend to feel as though they may explode off the ends of my legs at any given moment, leaving me with only the swollen stumps I now dejectedly refer to as my cankles. Are they my calves? Ankles? Can’t tell anymore; they’ve melded. Cankles.

So yes, seriously, Happy New Year. Merry belated Christmas. Your sparkly charity card I bought from the beautiful old church in Greenwich is sitting on the bookshelf in my living room, signed and addressed, abandoned before stamping due to extended illness. I’ll try again next year.

I am just now beginning to emerge from the comforting, quiet warmth that’s been cocooning my little life for the past two weeks as I’ve recuperated from a second, more serious bout of The Cold From Hell. Stu was home to hibernate with us for ten whole days. I could seriously get used to that. He and I decided to ignore the fact that it was just the two of us here for Christmas dinner and cooked an eleven pound turkey with all of our favourite sides. My brother, his girlfriend, and their Wii have been here since the 30th. I have barely had reason to leave the house other than to stock up on dinner ingredients and honey for my hot lemon water concoctions. It’s been lovely.

Lovely of course being the very last word I would have used to describe myself on Boxing Day morning, sitting in the hospital emergency room, sweating profusely and wearing my husband’s shoes because they were the only thing I could (barely) get my feet stuffed into. The Cold From Hell resurfaced out of nowhere after three blissful days of 97% nostril useage. By the time I sat slumped and waiting for help I was experiencing what felt like an electrical shock with every word uttered and every blink of my eyes. Literally. I am not a regular bad cold-getting person; I did not know that they have the ability to take over your entire being and make you want to die. Once again the docs hopped me up on (even stronger) antibiotics and sent me on my congested way. Only this time (knock on wood) I think it worked. Halle-freakin-lujah.

Now here we are, 2008. Time to adjust back to our usual routine and I suppose, take down the decorations soon. Time to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve got a handful of weeks left before our daughter finally arrives. I would welcome her tomorrow if I could, if only to watch her jazz/tap routine in person as opposed to feeling it rattling against my bladder every morning, noon and night. I am breeding the next So You Think You Can Dance champ, I just know it. The end isn’t fun anymore, I’m not gonna lie. As if it’s not apparent enough through my twice weekly whine here. I’ve taken to reading the last chapters of my many baby books, reminding myself of what to expect and different scenarios that may arise. I am like every other first time mother I’m sure. Resigned to the idea of great pain, because it’s really gonna hurt dammit, but anxious for it to just happen already.

I’ve spent the past few days thinking about resolutions and how mine have changed from previous years in 2008. From the ever present quit smoking to exercise more to get proactive about my career, they hadn’t really veered from the standard self-help stuff since I was roughly 24. Suddenly I find myself in a situation where life has almost sorted itself out for me that way, in that I can’t imagine puffing away on a cigarrette any more than I can see myself not jumping right back into a lengthy daily walk once my body has recovered from childbirth.

Pregnancy and all the clarity it has brought me personally has been a lifesaver in ways yet to reveal themselves I know. My entire outlook on life has changed in a way I couldn’t possibly have expected eight months ago. It’s much more clear, pointed, and yes probably idealistic to an extent. But it’s the will, and the newfound well of sheer determination to make things happen the right way for her that have surprised me the most. It’s apparently true - there are instincts that lay dormant in even the most party-loving gals out there. I’m living, mouthbreathing proof of it. This year I am therefore resolving to be a fantastic mother and an inspiring influence on my kid. And of course, to not drop the poor wee thing. What a difference a year can make.

Happy New Year.

This morning I finished my Christmas shopping in Lewisham, the borough in which we live but don’t spend much of our leisure time in. Our house is near the top of a hill that borders another village, Blackheath, and is also close to Greenwich, where Stu works. When we go out to walk, eat, or socialize we’ll go to one of those two.

Lewisham is very crowded and a bit run down (although in all fairness, not many parts of London aren’t, really). I realized today that once I am pushing a stroller around in front of me I’d have to actually be paid to shop there regularly, it’s that chaotic. The main street is closed off from traffic and houses a huge weekday vegetable, flower, and miscellaneous (read: junk) stalled market.

I am not sure exactly how many times I was bumped, pushed, and cut off, but it was more than ten and less than twenty. Infuriating to a woman carrying a boatload of extra weight and several shopping bags. I hadn’t realized the extent of my balance issues until one particular jab sent me careening nearly into a wall, belly first. I’m what you’d call front heavy at the moment. But it’s also Christmas and I’m a diehard shopper if there ever was one. I resisted the hormones that wanted to turn me into a roadside puddle of breathless self pity. I soldiered on. There were pounds burning a hole in my pocket.

We are on a strict gift budget this year after buying big ticket items like cribs and strollers and dressers to house Munchkin’s already extensive pink wardrobe. Considering my employment status, I don’t mind so much. There’s something very satisfying in finding useful, thoughtful gifts within a certain limit. The problem now is actually waiting until the 25th to open everything. That I’m not so good at. Four more sleeps!

Have a great weekend.

(And Happy Birthday, Steve-O, you silver fox! Stu sends plenty of borderline inappropriate hugs and kisses.)

The week before last marked one year of us living here. I think it was right about this time last year that I started missing Canadian weather. Two decades of Northern Ontario winters and another in Toronto can spoil a girl that way, what with all the soaked feet and windbitten ears.

I want a snow day. I suspect Ruby wouldn’t mind one either.

I also told myself a year ago that I’d NEVER be apart from family over this holiday again. Huh. Guess I’ll have to tell the baby she’ll have snow for Christmas next year. That way I know I’ll keep my promise.

I really, really miss home today. Think of us as you warm up your cars and kick the ice from your boots.

Our little Peanut has grown into a full fledged Munchkin. With a HUGE noggin, not unlike her Mama.

She weighs 4.2lbs, and the tech guesses she’ll be around 7.5 once finally cooked. She has dutifully moved herself high enough to deliver naturally, an element that’s been questionable from the start and the reason behind such a late scan.

We looked straight up her nose and I do believe her dad got a little weirded out. Understandable. Cute is not the first word that comes to mind. More like alien.

We were able to watch her flail about on the grainy screen while my belly simultaneously twitched and rocked from the inside out. Did she know we were looking at her? I think she likes to hook her ankles around my ribcage and swing like an acrobat. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Like the perennially patient person I am, I now find myself wishing away the coming weeks so I can hurry up and meet her already. Bring on the pain, baby girl. I’m ready.

Sorta.

My allies in battle:

Mystery solved. It appears that even a heavily gestating woman can squeeze a prescription for antibiotics (safe in pregnancy, I asked a kajillion times) out of a GP, if she:

a) Coughs the rattling, cringe-inducing cough of an 87-year-old two pack per day smoker
b) Appears to be a direct descendant of Death W. Over
c) Claims the use of one nostril and one nostril only, 24/7
d) Honestly reveals she is now coughing up green bits into the sink every morning

18 shades of sexy, I know. Doc even threw in an inhaler for good measure. I suck that mystery mist up with unbridled enthusiasm twice a night before bed, envisioning my healthy cells slowly overtaking the sick ones in the battle between good and evil. I’m not sure why exactly I go to bed at all anymore, but refuse to give up on the power of positive thinking.

What a weekend. I have a stellar husband, who by some miraculous work from above has not gotten sick yet. He trekked up and down the hill to Tesco for various items about eight more times than it would normally take for him to get supremely annoyed. He made the spiciest chili he could muster in response to my request for garlic, garlic and more chili peppers to help clear my sinuses. He made countless cups of ginger and lemon tea with honey, and tucked my feet under the blanket every time he passed. He walked the dog, and rubbed my back, and kept me calm during moments when the only thing I wanted to do was to break down in sleepless, hormonal despair at the thought of NEVER FEELING GOOD EVER AGAIN, OH MY GOD, TAKE ME NOW. The man deserves a freaking medal.

By Sunday he was of course trying to hide the fact that he’d like to climb the walls from boredom, so we indulged his idea to do some serious cooking by making homemade ravioli and sauce.

So we spent the better part of the day in the kitchen, churning dough through the machine, simmering tomatoes and secret ingredients on the stove, and concocting both a meat and a cheese filling to try. We each tackled a filling. I made mine with ricotta, parm, spinach, proscuitto and carmelized onions. Stu braised pork in stock with garlic and a slew of fresh herbs, and blended it with oven roasted tomatoes and fresh parsley at the end. Culinary geniuses? Why yes, thank you very much. The result was restaurant worthy, and if you travel all the way for a visit, I promise we’ll make more. Erm, just wait until the baby’s about three, k?

And because I don’t know when enough is enough, I also made a batch of chocolate chip cookies in between.

If they look a little well done to you, well, it’s cause I like them like that, ok?

All that food had little Miss Peanut somersaulting with joy. Our future dental surgeon will not only be wildly successful and outgoing, but also posess a chocolate worshipping mature and eclectic palate if we have anything to do with it.

And now Mama’s off in search of leftovers.

I’ve officially NEVER felt worse than I do currently. I’m a shiny, whiny, congested, bitchy, bunged-up nightmare sporting a highly unfashionable beachball as a waistline. And dammit my back is starting to ache at the weight of it all.

A light case of the sneezes has transformed itself into the Mother of All Nightmare Chest, Throat and Sinus Colds over the past week or so. And guess what I’m allowed to take for it?

SWEET F*&K ALL.

I sleep sporadically, perhaps three to four hours per night. I struggle between raging sweating episodes and shivering cold. The past few mornings I’ve been up at around 4am, pulling on layers of wool and tube socks before padding downstairs to sit in my chair with a pillow behind my head and my swollen ankles propped up on my trusty footstool.

It’s there that I swaddle myself in a fuzzy blanket to stare coma-like at the 24hr BBC News channel flickering away. It’s there that I pray for a quick painless death, or at the very least a few minutes of sleep.

And then it gets better. I feel a rumble of ache in my lower gut.

When your unborn child is taking all the iron you’re producing and leaving you slightly anemic, doctors tend to prescribe supplements to remedy a low red blood count. These little beauties are the medical equivalent to an Immediate Cease and Desist order for your bowels. They’re the fire alarm that forces you to walk down 40 flights of stairs in brand new heels. A dime-sized zit that appears right at the center of your chin on the morning of your job interview. They’re the spinach in your teeth and the spilled red wine down your white shirt at dinner. They’re the goddam buzzkill of a lifetime.

Some would say I’m exaggerating, that a morning contribution to the porcelain goddess doesn’t amount to much in one’s daily life. Well hang on and let me TAKE IT AWAY FOR A WEEK. Then we’ll talk. If the proverbial backlog isn’t enough to keep you distracted, I’m sure the raging, across-the-bulging-baby-belly cramps will seal the deal for an all around part-ay. We’ll see who begs for their mommy then.

So here I sit, like a not so little old lady, in a soft toque and my husband’s sweater. A bag of prunes to one side and my refreshing glass of orange flavoured SAND on the other. I chew and sip and gag just a little, reminiscing over dumps gone by. Then I sniffle and take a big long breath over my cracked, sore lips to my Sahara-Dry mouth.

And then I start all over again.

Sneezing at almost 30 weeks pregnant is a bit of a terrifying experience. Suffering from uncomfortable/will try anything/get that foot OFF MY SIDE semi-sleepless nights has led me to opening our bedroom window this week while we sleep. Or rather, while Mr. Heat The Whole House With His Bodyheat sleeps.

Of course, now I’m stuffed up and nasal and suffering from the sneezies. Which, fine, usually happens once a year anyway, but I didn’t realize what a production a simple bodily function could be (don’t even get me started on this list in its entirety).

My instincts tell me to cover my nose and mouth as I’m about to sneeze. Normal. Simple. They also tell me to hang on to the belly for dear life because the force of said sneeze is going to make the next 5 seconds feel like we’re at risk of a very early childbirth. And really, considering the size of this belly, it is a two hand job. My germs are everywhere. But damn I’m getting pretty darn attached to that basketball of mine, with her kicking and squirming and bumping around in there.

Has anyone done anything Christmas-y yet? I think we’re going to go into the city this weekend to visit Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland. There is a German market there that looked on the evening news as though every second stall held sweets. My kinda party.

Have a great one.

Stu is in a car on the way from Heathrow this morning after an overnight flight from Toronto. I imagine considering the time of day it will be at least a two hour trip. I keep asking Ruby enthusiastically, “Dad is home today, Ruby! Are you excited?” All she manages is an inquisitive stare, head cocked to one side. I think sometimes she wonders how the hell she ended up with a nutcase like me. Either way, we’ll both be very happy to have him home. In my state it feels as though he’s been gone a month. A friend who is due five days after I am wrote to me this week, “High hormones plus high discomfort plus low mobility equal unprecedented neediness.” She nailed it with that one. After being apart for ten days I’m going to be on him like a two hundred pound growth he’s waiting patiently to have surgically removed.

.::.

I took a volunteer position this week, as editor of a newsletter for the local chapter of a national charity geared toward expectant and new parents. Monday morning was my frst meeting with the publisher at her home. Because I am a freak incapable of being smooth in new situations, I slept a total of 4 hours Sunday night. Not because I was nervous about the meeting. I was stressed out about getting to the meeting late. I have no idea where this obsession with being on time comes from, only that it runs strong and deep in my personality, at times to the detriment of my relationship with one man in particular. I finally got up at 4:48 am to mapquest her house and write out directions for my cab driver. Then I booked said cab, just in case it was going to be a busy Monday for them. At that point I was finally able to go back to sleep, soundly, for another two hours. I’m still recovering. Can’t wait to see how life with a newborn is.

I think it will be good for me; it’s both about getting the juices flowing and having something on my resume, but also about crawling out of my shell of supposed self-sufficiency and actually making an effort with people. As someone who’d normally be surrounded by the strength and support of an incredible family and group of friends, it’s been just a bit isolating here, to say the least. Forcing myself to accept that while there are no substitutes for my tried and true girlfriends at home, I can at least give what are likely to be great new people the benefit of getting to know them. The charity is geared to women “just like me”, and apparently has proven to be incredibly helpful for families in our situation.

As long as they NEVER ask me to sit in a circle and sing high-pitched, saccharine-dipped alphabet songs with my kid, we’ll all be fine.

From both of us.