I am now so large that certain countries wish to harpoon me. I daren't wear white lest small children stick carrots on my face thinking I'm a snowman. I can no longer put on my socks without pretending I'm a circus contortionist. And shaving any part of my lower body has become an exercise fraught with danger as I blindly wield the blade and hope for the best. Yet I don't have any stretchmarks. It can only be a matter of time.
I've reached 32 weeks today. That means Bad Boy could put in an appearance any time between 5 and 10 weeks from now, and boy am I hoping for the lower end of that scale. It's impossible to get comfortable, take a deep breath or stay away from the loo for more than half an hour at a time. And the heartburn. Dear Sweet Jebus the heartburn...
At home, the cat is perplexed. He clearly senses something is up and he has never before been so affectionate with me. I think he knows his days of being picked up and cradled like a baby are numbered. (He glowers when I do it, but he never actually tries to escape.)
Mr B, the most patient man on the planet, is verklempt that he can't really do anything to help in terms of the physical side of pregnancy (though the advance birthday present of a shiatsu massage seat was a damn fine effort). Last night he asked me, rather plaintively, whether there was anyhting he could do. I asked him whether he knew how to perform a Caesarian Section. And I was only half joking.
Nevertheless, this time last year, we were still grieving over our third miscarriage and wondering whether we'd ever have a baby. Now, I could be as little as 5 weeks away (always assuming God is busy smiting Republicans and hasn't got a little trick up his sleeves). So every time I grumble, I do remind myself that my current discomfort is a joy compared to the pain we went through last year.
And then I grumble some more because, well, I'm an ungrateful bitch.
