This week, I turned the grand old age of 27. When I was a kid, 27 was the age that I thought you became properly grown up. Twenty-seven year olds had savings, and made grown up purchases, and were all domesticated and stuff.
Fast forward to actually being 27, and I feel a bit different. I had to get my mum to help us hang some curtains, as we did such a comically bad job on the first attempt. My bedroom is still a mess. I can count the times I’ve ironed an outfit before wearing it in the last year on one hand – a grown up I am not.
But then again, I’m married, own a cat and a skillet pan, I’m 8 and a half months pregnant and I seriously considered buying new towels with my birthday vouchers, so maybe I’m half way there.
To celebrate my birthday, and my new maternity dress from H&M, here’s a bump shot at 33 weeks.
On my birthday, my Mum cooked homemade pizzas and I literally ate until my knee length boots didn’t fit any more. Either that, or I experienced leg swelling for the first time. Either way, calves the same width as your thighs and having boots that have an inch space around the calf at mid afternoon, and having the same boots not do up by 9pm is SO NOT COOL.
Like the Queen, I also had a fake birthday two days later. I booked a day off work and Neil surprised me with a pre-natal massage. We had a double room at the spa, and my bed was covered in these heated water pads which felt lovely on my sore bones. Everything was going swimmingly until I realised the ringing in my ears was not part of the relaxing soundtrack, and I desperately needed to get off the hot bed and on to the cold floor before I was sick on myself or passed out. I sat my ass on the floor in a very unglamorous manner (which wasn’t helped by the fact that A) I was only wearing my knickers and a blanket and B) I was covered in massage oil which may or may not have left an imprint of my knicker-clad bum on the cold hard floor).
After a few minutes, I felt OK enough to give it another go with the heat pads turned off, but the same thing happened again, so we cut the massage short and admitted defeat. I’m going to put it down to sod’s law, low blood sugar due to a breakfast of hastily consumed banana, and lying on my back for any length of time. But mostly sod’s law.
So, what does a pregnant girl do when she’s feeling flaky and is too weak to lie down in a dark room and have a massage?
She goes for pancakes.
We’ve been meaning to go to Warsaw Diner for ages, and the need for a substantial breakfast seemed like the ideal excuse. It was also bloody lovely to spend some time with Neil without a to do list in hand or one of us having to work. Look at that face. Isn’t he lovely?
After ‘breakfast’, we mooched around town, stopped every 5 minutes for another wee, spent birthday vouchers and generally walked v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. Before we knew it, it was time for Afternoon Tea at Larder on Goosegate to top up our calorie intake for the day.
Neil got in to the swing of afternoon tea. I looked like a bufoon as usual.
Also this week, we went to an ‘Active Vision, Active Birth’ class at the hospital. It was refreshing to hear the midwives talk about normal birth and active birth in such passionate ways, as I think in my head, you were given an epidural and episiotomy as you walked through the doors of the labour ward whether you wanted one or not. It certainly did a lot to calm my nerves about being in hospital, although I am still suitably terrified of ending up on a ward with 7 other women and babies, especially with my ability to tolerate people being knobheads being at an all time low.
If you’re not all up on your active birth knowledge, basically, a lot of maternity units seem to have recently stocked up on snazzy birthing stools, hammocks, birthing balls and beanbags for you to use to help nature take its course. Sounds very sensible to me, but can’t help but wonder whether some accountant has worked out that the cost of a normal, active birth is significantly lower than a birth full of interventions and can therefore save the NHS a few quid. Still, works for me.
I’ve also found my nesting urge. However, it comes more in the form of micro-managing Neil and roping my mum in to doing stuff around the house that I’ve been meaning to do for months. Although I didn’t do any of the heavy lifting, or curtain hanging, I did an impressive amount of baby laundry and folding. The cupboards are full, the nappies are organised in to size order and the bedding is on the crib. I’ve even started my hospital bag, if putting a 5 pack of massive granny pants, a Dairy Milk, a top with boob-holes for breastfeeding and a botttle of moisturiser in a bag counts. I won’t need much else, right?