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Posts tagged ‘Pregnancy Diary’

40/40 – It Ain’t Over Till The Fat Lady Sings

And sadly, this particular fat lady can’t seem to find her voice. I had hoped to report on the arrival of a child over the festive season, and in typical me fashion, even without an actual birth, I was writing the post in my head – remarking on the fact that it was a lovely early/late Christmas present, that I had known all along I’d go early (HA!) and so on. Unfortunately, as time has ticked on, all those lovely thoughts have been consigned to the scrapheap, and it’s a case of playing the waiting game. (more…)

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35.5/40 – Still Moving

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”?

34/40 – Moving

Since the early stages of this pregnancy, and certainly since I have started this blog, there has been an elephant in the room that I haven’t spoken about. It’s been on my mind and the tip of my tongue, but I just haven’t been able to bring myself to sit down and write about it. Well, the elephant has stood up, and has started to dance the lambada, so I can ignore it no longer.

We’re moving house next week…..
It’s not that I don’t want to move, I love our new house, I am really excited about having a place of our own again. We’ve been renting since we moved home from the UK, and it’ll be great for the toddler to have her own room, complete with Peppa Pig/ Dora / Barney (or whatever character is in toddler vogue) accessories. I’m looking forward to choosing my own curtains and light-fittings – for the last number of months I have been staring in part amazement, part horror at the ones in our living room, wondering did someone pay real money for them, were they given free, or better still, was the landlord paid to take them?

It will also be great to settle down somewhere. Since this millennium kicked off, I have regularly piled my belongings – which initially fit into a battered red suitcase – into various forms of transport and taken off to a new home, crossing the length of India, the Irish sea, and even the Liffey to do so. It has been really exciting, and I wouldn’t change a thing, but as well as picking up lots of shoes on my travels, there is now a husband, a toddler, a house full of furniture, and all manner of other “essentials” from candlestick holders to smoothie makers, which need to be transported. Moving has become harder every time – the period of chaos before and after has extended each time, to the point that I feel that I have only just got over the last move (March) and now we’re off again. So I am pinning my hopes that this is the last one – that the husband and I have found our forever home, and that we will settle down to a life of domestic bliss and smoothies in the candlelight there together.

But before we can kick off with the domestic bliss, we need to get through the move with our sanity and our marriage intact. I’m almost 8 months pregnant, and my ability to see both sides of an argument deserted me about 6 months ago. The toddler, who has a similar approach to me on arguments, can best be termed as “change-resistant”. (She doesn’t like a new type of pasta, just how she will react to a new home is anyone’s guess). There are builders in situ in the new house at the moment and while they confidently insist that it will be habitable next Friday, I am dubious – I suppose it depends on the definition of habitable really, doesn’t it? And of course, there is a baby on the way. I want the baby to come, preferably a little early, but I want the house to be ready, and looking just right, before it does. When I first articulated that hope it sounded reasonable, but as the time approaches it has become obscured in packing materials and builders’ muddy footprints.

On the plus side, even though we are only moving about 3 roads away, we are getting movers in. Previous moves have involved the husband and a van, aided by whoever he could coerce / bribe / threaten. He feels that to pay for professional movers is crazy, when there are able bodied males around who can do the honours. I listened to his arguments (or pretended to) while remembering the way that my Waterford crystal got handled the last time, and patiently pointed out the hidden cost of doing the move himself. Namely, divorce. Quotes were swiftly obtained, and funnily enough, the movers are all booked in now. It pays to be pregnant in some cases.

So if I block out the mess, and the fact that I won’t be able to find the hairdryer/ potato peeler until next May, and the poor toddler feeling disassociated, I can start to look forward to the first of many Christmases in our new home. At least until we get itchy feet again…

22/40 – Decisions, decisions, decisions

I’m usually a pretty decisive kind of girl. Whether I am buying breakfast cereal or houses, changing my lipstick or dying my hair, I’ve never had a problem making my mind up. I’m not saying that this has always been a good idea, thinking back on the dodgy perms, ridiculous shoes and all too many awkward situations that have resulted, but there are advantages to this approach. Weighing up the pros and cons gives you time to get scared or worried, and if you get scared, you often back out. So, as well as owning an inordinate amount of inappropriate shoes, I’ve ended up tour-guiding around Dublin, owning property in my early 20’s (when most of my friends weren’t even thinking of buying), and even living in India because I make up my mind quickly. All ultimately good, if not particularly well thought out, decisions.

But pregnancy changes all of this for me. Once I hold a positive test in my hand, the ability to make up my mind leaves me. Every decision – big or small – becomes an exercise in procrastination. It’s a real killer. Take a recent visit to the hairdresser… The old me would have marched in, announced the style I want, got it, and left. The pregnant me pored over hairdo possibilities, (which given the length of my hair, are fairly limited) then when asked by the cross-looking girl – my nice usual hairdresser was away – what I wanted, I mutter “Well, I dunno, what do you think..?” And even though I know her suggestion isn’t going to work, (it’s a fringe, and I have form with fringes), I agree, because I just can’t reach a decision otherwise.

Even getting dressed has become an ordeal. I have some pretty decent maternity gear – it’s not my first pregnancy and I have generous friends and family who have loaned me their stuff. So, you’d think that, seeing as I have the raw materials, I should manage to look fairly smart when I’m heading out to earn my keep. But no, far from it. Every morning I stand looking helplessly at the wardrobe, with the clock ticking ominously… When I eventually decide to wear a skirt, and even have it on, I realise that my legs are hairy and I can’t. So I wear trousers. It’s only when I am actually walking into the office that I realise that my blouse is not suited to the trousers, and is too short… flashing a nice bit of pregnant belly. Not a good look, and instead of looking nice and smart, I look like I have got dressed in the dark. Every day I vow that the next day will be different, that I will decide the night before and stick to it, but – like groundhog day – each morning finds me in the same agony of indecision.

Oh, there are loads of examples… ordering food in restaurants, deciding whether to drive or get the train, and so on and on. But there is perhaps one person who is getting some benefit from my inability to make my mind up … My husband, who has spent 3 years married to the bossiest woman in Ireland, is suddenly Chief Operator in Charge of What We are Having for Dinner (a lot more steak than under the previous regime, let me tell you). Never has he had such a good time with the telly either – while I sit there humming and hawing , he has switched to a World War II documentary, and opened a beer. Can’t say I blame him really…. But, once January comes, and this baby meets the world, normal service will be resumed, and Gok’s Fashion Fix will resume it’s rightful place in our household.

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