I had hoped that this week’s post would be about my lovely new house, maybe recounting some amusing anecdotes about boxes or bubblewrap, maybe having a little moan about the toddler’s inability to settle into her new room, but essentially full of the joys of finally having a place to live.
Unfortunately though, we’re coming close to complete pregnant mammy meltdown. Instead of moving a few roads away, with all our belongings, to our dream home, we have gone all the way down the M50 with a couple of suitcases, and set up camp in my parent’s. Hardly ideal – especially not for my parents, who though they have made us very welcome, must be feeling their nerves fray as the toddler asks to be read the same story for the 150th time.
To be fair, the move out went well. The movers were great, and all our worldly possessions appear to (haven’t opened all the boxes yet) have survived the 250 metre trip. The toddler walked away without a backward glance (mainly because she was walking into her beloved granny’s arms – the words I have heard most over the last few days are “Bye bye Mammy, I stay with Granny”) so it’s not all bad. But, there is no escaping it… The dream home is still a long way away from making the pages of Home and Living magazine. At this stage, my biggest fear is that this baby is going to arrive without a home to go to. I know we’d cope, and my parents would be great about it, but that’s really not how I’d like it to be. To boot, we haven’t got the hospital bag packed, we haven’t located where the Moses basket is, all the babygros (from tiny baby to big bruiser) are all lumped together in one bag – and I don’t know where that is. So, each time I feel a little ache, or have a practice contraction, I think… “Oh, no! This is it!”. I have a few weeks still to go, I know, but the toddler made an early appearance, and also, I have spent months willing the time to pass, hoping that 40 weeks doesn’t become 41 or 42, and I can’t help feeling that the Gods would think this was a nice little present for me… Along the lines of “Be careful what you wish for….”.
And being 8 months pregnant, it’s not the best time, physically or mentally, to have my plans thwarted in any way. I did warn the husband to expect fireworks combined with waterworks when we began this process, and so far I haven’t disappointed on either count. He’s being admirably patient, making lots of soothing noises etc. but my tendency to become apocalyptic is getting worse as the days without a finished house pass. Our builders are doing a fantastic job – I can say that in the clear light of day, as I am breathing nice and deeply, sitting at the pc. But when the husband and I did a recent nocturnal visit, in the freezing cold (the heating doesn’t work yet), getting covered in a film of grey dust as we stepped over planks, I failed to see the huge progress, and started mumbling incoherently and tearfully about eating Christmas dinner in a hard hat. Next year.
But, if you exclude comments about hard hats, and tears, and the toddler now commuting to creche via the M50 – I think we’re coping fairly well. Or the husband is. And, I must keep repeating this, the end is in sight. There is no more talk now about foundations and roofing, but plastering and tiling have entered the discussions. I am hanging out for the words “finishing touches”, “snag list” or perhaps more relevantly “final payment” before I get too excited… But maybe next weeks post will be called “Moved”?