When Eggs Go Bad...

Thirtysomething

I can't believe I've managed 30 weeks of gestation tomorrow. When I think of the torture of those first 12 or 13 weeks, how we expected every scan to reveal the worst, I'm amazed we've come this far. Bad Boy moves pretty much constantly and apparently has strong opinions as to how I position myself at my desk, on the sofa, in bed. If he doesn't like it, he lets me know. Or I could be wrong; he could be doing little happy dances to let me know he likes my choice of posture. I can't be sure.

I'm so happy to still be pregnant, but I have come to realise just how much damage my miscarriages did to my psyche. I'm no longer the relatively easy-going and forgiving person I once was. These days I am quick to judge, I don't suffer fools gladly, and I find myself getting very irritated by things that would never have bothered me before. I keep people at a distance more than ever now. I was never a truly gregarious person, but I was always friendly. Now, I find I have to force myself to stay in touch with all but my best friends and as for making new ones, I'm just not interested. Most people just annoy me. Or that's what I tell myself. The truth is something altogether deeper, I'm just not sure what it is. Maybe some fear of getting close to someone. Two very close friendships have ended this year (my handiwork, though not, I feel, without provocation). One was a direct result of the miscarriages; the other when I realised that I just couldn't be what this person needed me to be. So maybe I'm just scared of having to make that decision again? Or maybe I am just a stupid, arrogant bitch, as someone called me recently (a total stranger; nice).

I'm bitter, there's no escaping that. I feel angry a lot, and I'm worried I'll end up one of those old women who scares everybody, and whose house the neighbourhood kids egg when they're not spreading rumours about how I live on cat food and bourbon. Yet I don't know how to change!

My only hope is that I'm still pregnant. Maybe, somehow, seeing my son for the first time will help dissolve some of this latent rage, this blackness I feel for everyone and everything. Or maybe it will  be the start of post partum depression that will just consolidate it all. I'm really scared of what I'm feeling.

Something is Afoot

Bad Boy is fractious. And restless. He moves. A lot. His favourite time appears to be after dinner when I sprawl in beached-whale fashion recline in a ladylike manner on the sofa, when my stomach starts to look like that scene from Alien. Even Mr B can see it from across the room (he doesn't come too close these days; I wield irritability like a weapon).

About a week ago, I'm sure I felt a small baby head protruding on my left side. And two nights ago, I actually grabbed a foot.

I remember when I was pregnant with the Badeggs Daughter, I commented that I was carrying either a future ballerina or a future footballer. So she must have been active, too, though I don't remember any such roilings as the post-prandial ones I've described above. I do recall once being able distinctly to make out an elbow, but that was at 36 weeks or so. (Incidentally, with the Badeggs Daughter, I got neither Fontayne nor Rooney. What I have instead is quite the most surly teenager on the face of the planet, who if she moves her legs at all does not so so to attempt a grand jete or hammer home a goal but instead to carry her to and from the fridge so she can decimate my stash of diet coke before resuming her MTV vigil. And I am doing this again because...?)

In other news, the nursery is now pretty much done. We are collecting the cot/crib on Sunday, and already have the matching dresser full of cute little jammies, blankets, booties and hats. (This is where I start watching for lighting bolts or other signs that Fate is a bitch and has it in for me.) It is a tiny room, but Mr B has done an amazing job on it. It has wainscoting panels up to a height of about 4 feet, and these are painted in Antique Satin, a lovely biscuity colour, while the top part is painted light blue. Mr B laid some oatmeal coloured carpet that is lovely and warm. And the whole thing goes perfectly with the bedding that I bought in the States this Summer. It's really brought it home for us that we are, on balance, fairly likely to have an actual living infant this winter. Real lump in the throat stuff for us. Next step is to buy some baskets and accessories to really make it cozy and tidy.

I shall also be equipping the nursery with a CD player so that I can play the Classical Baby CD that was given to me yesterday by...wait for it...the person I had to fire last month. If I say so myself, I think it says a lot about me that I handled it in such a way that not only does she not hold a grudge against me but actually bought a present for my bump. It says a hell of a lot about her, too.

So, until next time... a bientot!