There are certain things that go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong- wine and cheese, shoes and socks, olives and wine, buckets and spades, most things with wine actually – being heavily pregnant and a heatwave… oh no, Wait. Not that one. Come to think of it.
While you are all posting your sodding selfies on Instagram of you soaking up the sun with various summer alcoholic treats – mojitos, cool beers, cider bubbling between ice cubes – I am sitting, nay squatting, near an open window with an industrial sized fan next to me in an overly stretched maternity vest and marquee like pants, sipping milk in the delicate time zone between dairy delight and curdled turd water. I sweat all the time anyway – but now I just leak, like a rusty Buddha garden water feature.
Am I summer ready? Ha. I put the ‘beach’ into beached whale. If I wore a bikini I would be arrested. They don’t make a suncream lotion bottle big enough to smother over the hideous gargantuan mass I have become. I can’t reach my toe nails to paint and I will need a team to help me shave my legs. I am only hot in the literal sense!
Could I just go in a paddling pool? Well, first that would require me pumping it up – that would surely make me pass out from exertion. If I managed to pump it up and sit in it I would never be able to get up again and more pressingly, the neighbours will wake up and wonder how they have been transported to the Serengeti.
“Barbara! Come quick, there is an actual Hippopotamus over t’fence in some sort of watering hole! Grab the polaroid.”
And what am I supposed to eat? I crave carbs but I can only just about manage ice cream, milk and prescribed antacid tablets. I may as well crush the tablets up and use them as a sort of hundreds and thousands alternative.
I also have a toddler to look after – but I don’t want your sympathy.
I remember when heat waves would be fun – but those days disappeared as soon as we had a baby and realised it’s basically our job to keep baby cool, out of the sun and in no way exposed to this death star! This continues into toddler-hood where we spend our days trying to force feed them juice, sorbets and squash (despite them having no interest), covering every cm of them with cream or protective clothing and wafting things at them in case they over heat. All the while making sure they aren’t vitamin D deficient for Christ’s sake!
(one year we put him in the fridge! We had no choice)
Last time I was heavily pregnant in the peak of winter. There was heavy snow and ice on the ground and we were house bound – I thought that was bad! HA. If only I had known the alternative.
Being, as I am, full term pregnant in this heat is beyond worse. Especially as all I can do, as I sit by my fan, is imagine (and see if I go on social media) how much fun everyone else is having while I watch the sun from behind my shaded shield feeling sorry for myself – missing out on the three days a year mother nature gives us a sunny day in the UK.
I have to crawl up and down my stairs about 76 times a day to empty my squashed bladder – this sort of cardio at this stage makes me want to vomit. I also have to put up with constant fanny daggers from my soon to be born son.
The only pro I can see so far is that if you are constantly by an industrial sized fan and you pass any wind – it is immediately dispersed through the air and keeps your cover! #winning
Bring on the winter!
Bring on the birth!
I’ll do it right now, no drugs – get that paddling pool pumped up!
Dear precious first born, there is something pressing we need to discuss with you.
I write this on the eve of a fairly important event. You see, someone is arriving tomorrow – someone who you’re going to be spending a lot of time with – like it or not.
I know you’re young and we don’t talk much – unless it’s about frogs or cars. But I suppose now is as good a time as any to try and have this conversation. I know you think mummy has been eating A LOT lately and my stomach has outgrown the both of us. I see your horrified face when I’m in the shower – but I haven’t swallowed your monster truck set – I’ve been growing a little life long friend for you.
The good news is it’s a brother! And you know boys are cool right? Really cool. And he will love your cars! And your train set. But, of course, only if you want him to love them. No one will force you to share your cars with him. I know you don’t know the word “share” yet – I never learned it myself! But we will have plenty of time to discuss sharing in the years to come.
Now I don’t want you to worry about favouritism. It’s not an issue. You, my darling, are our precious first born! We only have eyes for you (but let’s just keep that between ourselves shall we? Your brother doesn’t need to know!)
Anyway! If the pregnancy is anything to go by – I think your brother is going to be an arse! So much more difficult than you were. But again – ssshh.
I’ve been wondering why on earth we decided to have another baby to be honest. You’re so wonderful! If it ain’t broke – why try and fix it?! What possessed us? Were we just showing off?! Was it a case of when you buy a fancy juicer you only use once and you feel like you haven’t got your money’s worth! We should use it one more time – just to see if it still works?!
But here we are and tomorrow our tiny little family will be transformed to a bigger one. Though we do promise – this will be the only addition. You can relax.
So although it might be unsettling / shocking tomorrow and over the next few months while you get used to him – we just want you to know that you’ll always be our precious first born and we could never ever love you any less! Er… That came out wrong. What I mean is – we will never change our love for you. Just don’t tell your bro.
I’m going to miss you so much over the next few days and I hope you don’t miss me too much. I also hope your dad doesn’t only feed you crisps and biscuits – I’ve given him a detailed list of instructions, don’t worry.
Today (October 3rd 2016) my three year old son walked up to me in the kitchen and shattered my heart. “Mummy” I heard. The word I hear perhaps two thousand times a day and am ashamed to tell you makes me flinch more times than not. I was busily tidying up the debris from the kitchen and uttered “mmm?”
“I’m not a baby anymore.” he said. Out of nowhere. Blindsided.
I looked down at him in his penguin pyjamas. His pure, pale face staring up at me. His perfect brown eyes shining, waiting for a response. I started to breathe again and felt my eyes heavy with tears forcing their way out.
“I know.” I said. And then started to cry in a way mums cry in front of their children as to not alarm them. A false smile plastered across my face, tears falling, like a deranged circus clown.
“I am a big boy now.” he continued. My body trembled as I choked out “but you’ll always be MY baby.”
‘NO.” He insisted. Not understanding the inflection. “I am not a baby.”
I nodded in agreement and sobbed for twenty minutes in the kitchen while he played with his fire engine.
I wept. He will never be a baby again. My small boy is only going to get bigger, and with each year further away. From day one pressed against my breast, to school next year.
It didn’t help matters further as ‘Always be my baby’ shuffled on to the music on my phone. Mariah belted out:
“We were as one babe, for a moment in time, and it seemed everlasting that you would always be mine.”
I sobbed again as I wailed along to the music like a bad X Factor contestant (though I was still better than Honey G).
In these times all I can do is channel my inner Mariah Carey and insist:
“You’ll always be a part of me, I’m part of you indefinitely, boy don’t you know you can’t escape me
Ooh darling ’cause you’ll always be my baby.”
He will always be my baby. I have spent the majority of the day cuddling him.
Don’t whinge about your husband
some people don’t have a husband
or a boyfriend for that matter
or friends even – to have a coffee with, and a natter
some people are lonely and despair
if he won’t fill the dishwasher, do you really care?
You could be widowed, or too ugly for a man
hold on to him Ducky, for as long as you can.
Don’t go on and on about how much you loathe your job
don’t you know some people have to thieve and rob?
some people can’t get an interview or type a CV
some can’t get their head around a bloody PC.
Don’t moan about your dinner, praying to Venus
oh if you could just. be. thinner
Some people don’t have meals, or food while we’re on it
ditch the calorific wine and have a Gin and tonic.
And don’t moan about your children.
Don’t cry about your baby, never sleeping through the night
his smelly poos
how much milk he gets through
how bloody expensive was that Jumperoo?
how he wrote on your wall with your eyeliner pen
I swear to God boy, don’t make me count to ten
how sometimes his crying drives you crazy