When Eggs Go Bad...

RSI

Re-Setting Intentions: my new life goal is to never eat another bread crust. I hate them. Despise them even. Yet I have always eaten them because my mother or grandmother or someone told me it was good roughage. Well I don't care. I get my 5-a-day minimum fruits and vegetables. I'm pretty sure my digestive tract can handle the absence of a little cardboard-like bread edging.

Random Shoves Inside: Bad Boy is running out of room and doesn't seem terribly impressed. Sweetie? Give mummy a break.

Rubbish Sofa Inhabitation: There is NOTHING on TV at the moment! I'm too knackered to do anything resembling exercise, and my pregnancy-addled brain can't cope with reading after a full day at work, so TV is all I've got (well, besides conversation with Mr B, but it's not like he expects it. We are married after all).

Reducing Scion's Inheritance: If anyone has seen where my money has gone, can you please tell it to come home?

Really Stubborn Influenza: Ok, it ws a cold, not the flu, but it has been hanging around for 3 weeks now and I'm getting a little tired of the nose-blowing. Still, I have managed to wean myself off the nasal spray after I ened up with nosebleeds after 3 days of using the stuff.

Ridiculous Song-related Instability: I found myself crying at Nancy Griffith's From a Distance in the car the other day. It's still not as bad as my sister who, when pregnant with her son, was reduced to great hormonal sobs whilst listening to Kenny Rogers' Coward of the County.

Repetitive Strain Injury: I actually have one in my right shoulder blade area and I'm in agony with it.

Reasonably Short Interim: Only 9 weeks to go. I can't believe I made it this far.

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!

25 Down, 15 to Go

I had my 25 week check-up by my GP and everything is fine. Blood pressure is good and growth is right on target. And the UFO wriggles around so much that I think I'm ready to send back the rented foetal doppler. I haven't used it for 5 weeks now, and I believe I can finally put down that particular £20 per month crutch.

I was bemused by my GP's attitude during the check-up. She gave me a big hello and said "Well, you finally got there in the end!". I laughed and told her we'd waited quite a while to try again and wondered whether that helped. But she reckoned it was just the luck of the draw, and then went on to treat me like any other normal pregnant woman. Yet somehow, I still feel like anything but. I didn't necessarily want anything different from her; it just still surprises me when I'm reminded that my recurrent losses were in all likelihood just shit luck. I still feel like I must be under some curse that everyone can see.

*Gack!* I'm not making any sense.

Anyway, Badeggs Boy (or Bad Boy, as I like to call him) is fine. And, no, I'm not pretending to keep the gender a secret anymore; you've all figured it out anyway being the observant lot that you are!

By the way, thanks to those of you who left comments on my last commentable post or who e-mailed about my decision to switch comments off. I wanted to say that I'm not upset with anybody about single digit comments; what I was trying to get across is that my feeble and sometimes fragile id or ego or whatever was trying desperately to convince me to take it personally. In switching off the comments, I switched off that particular self-applied pressure. In other words: it's not you, it's me. I hope that make sense, because it's been great not to be worrying about checking comments!

Anyway, if you really need to tell me something, you can still e-mail me. I'm still here, I promise.

Turned Off

For those who are interested (and it looks like there's really not that many), I've disabled comments on this blog.

When I found myself worrying at 2.30 this morning about the dearth of comments, and feeling angry and hurt that the only time I get a lot of them is when my heart has been ripped out by a miscarriage, I knew I had fallen into the trap of letting this blog be for other people instead of for me.

I will still update about UFO's progress, but I just don't want to fret about how many people are reading the posts and be constantly comparing myself to other bloggers whose comments number in double digits. It's too tempting to base my sense of self-worth on it, and frankly I've lost enough popularity contests in my youth to want to start playing that game again at 37. The whole idea of the blog was to work through my grief at my losses and now (Universe willing) to document my pregnancy with my son. I don't need comments to do that.

To those who have made the effort, whether once or many times, please know how much I appreciate it. I hope you'll keep coming back to read.

Ready...Aim...

I am much less cranky today, which is kind of a miracle when you consider that yesterday I had to travel by air; something that, as a general rule, normally has me hissing and spitting for at least a week afterward. It's also a miracle when you consider that on Friday, my week ended with having to fire someone.

I love being a manager. And I know that being a manager means that sometimes you have to take tough decisions. I know that the flip side of having to tell someone how great they're doing is having to tell someone that they are falling down on the job. And unfortunately, the flip side of the thrill of telling someone they're hired seeing the sense of accomplishment light up their face, is having to tell someone that despite having said all the right things at interview and been hired, in reality they are not cut out for the job and will no longer have said job come Monday.

I feel bad, though not guilty. I followed all the legal rules and all the internal procedure, and I can say with hand on heart that I gave this person every possible chance to improve and that, at the end of the day, she just wasn't capable of what she was being asked to do. We've offered assistance in finding a new job, will give her a standard reference, and I even managed to get the company to waive its right to claim back the deposit it paid on her rental property when she relocated here so that she won't have to panic about that. I gave her positive feedback where it was due, and an honest but gentle assessment of her shortcomings. And at the end of the day, I believe that it was the best decision for the company, for her colleagues, and probably, in the long run, even for her. But boy I wish I hadn't had to do it.

Today's drama is waiting to see if my ex-Fuckwit gets charged for harassment (it's looking likely). UPDATE: just learned he will be charged at 2 pm today. That's assuming he shows up, because apparently he has told the police that he's far too busy at work (he drives a tour bus round town) to show up for his legally required bail interview... If he shows up, he'll have a court appearance for harassment in a couple of months' time. If he doesn't show up, the court appearance will also be to answer charges of failing to meet bail conditions. The man is beyond help, I swear. But, you know, he basically terrorized and abused me, by letter and the occasional phone call, for NINE YEARS! It got to the point where I started shaking every time the post dropped through the letterbox, because there might have been a letter from him. I shouldn't have to take that. I wish I could bloody well fire him.

Baby B is doing well, if all the kicking and wriggling is anything to go by. I am profoundly grateful every time I feel him (ahem..or her) move. To what or whom I don't know, since I refuse to give God credit as long as he fails to take responsibility for the bad stuff. But I know just how lucky I am.

I am as big as, or possibly bigger than, Cleveland, but the good news is my boobs don't hurt quite so badly anymore. My back, however, is a different story and my new office chair is making it worse. But lest you think I am complaining, let me assure you I am not. I am profoundly grateful for every twinge, ache and acid reflux, too.

Scan Photos...or Maybe Not

I tried, I really did try. I wanted to upload these onto one of those photo sharing websites, but on Flickr the image kept coming out black, and on Snapfish I didn't have the right file format. So then I tried just uploading them directly into the blog. Again, I have the wrong file type. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU TECHNOLOGY PEOPLE?!!! Is it too much to ask for there to be one standard type of file that even Luddites like myself can use? You are all SERIOUSLY pissing me off.

I've now tried just uploading it as a PDF file, but it probably won't work. Nevertheless, if you don't want to see scan photos, don't click on the link.

Download Scanpdf_150197_20060831_122256.pdf

Perhaps more tomorrow, or the next time I'm not feeling cranky, which will probably be never.

PS. The bottom image is Baby Badeggs' feet. Very cute, if the fracking technology lets you see it.

BA Stops All Flights

It was bound to happen....

S-T-E-R-E-O Spells Divorce

I love my husband, I truly do. He's got the patience of a saint with me, puts up with all my BS, works like a maniac around the house (both DIY and your bog standard housework), and he still fancies me even though I look like one of those prehistoric fertility symbols, you know, the ones with the protruding stomachs and massive hips and thighs? And that's not all: when we babysat my 4-month-old nephew overnight while on holiday, he got up twice to mix the formula for the night feedings (2am and 5am; thanks, kid) and changed several smelly nappies. All in all, he is pert near perfect. So why am I this close to calling the lawyer? Two words: Stero Equipment.

Maybe this is true of most men -- I don't know -- but my husband has a veritable trove of eletronic do-hickies that would not look out of place at NASA. We have separate boxes for everything: DVD, CD, transformers, receivers, hard drives, a record player for God's sake. We have wires snaking out from behind the TV console that make the place look like backstage an hour before a Bon Jovi concert. And remote controls? Oh yeah, we got 'em. All shapes, all sizes, all colours. And all-flipping-over the place.

And now, my sisters...now? We have big ass ugly black speakers mounted on the walls.

In order that we may better experience the sound of car chases, explosions, space ships, lasers, and gunfire, Mr B has arranged a series of oversized eyesores speakers around the room, including the two that have been fastened to the walls at the back of the room. ("But it's surround sound! They have to be there!") And so overjoyed is he at the thought of being lifted bodily out of the sofa by the noise that the mention of imminent divorce raised nothing more than an eyebrow before he started rubbing his hands together and looking for the next surface to cover with AV equipment.

UFO and I went upstairs and watched Weeds quite happily on the 14-in Goodmans in the bedroom. I cherished every second, because it's only a matter of time before my child develops the Stereo gene (and that's the ONLY hint you're getting!).

Does anybody know whether I'd be able to get the electronics in a divorce settlement?

Exes and Ohs

Did you miss me? (What do you mean was I gone?!)

Had an excellent vacation (with huge apologies to those of you with whom I had tentative plans to meet up; it just didn't happen for various reasons including me being sick with a cold the entire first week!). It threatened to start out badly, as Mr B and I had to tell the Badeggs Daughter that her father had been arrested.

We knew it was coming. He has harassed me for 9 years now with awful, upsetting letters and the occasional phone calls, and Mr B has been on the receiving end for the past 4 years. It has got much worse in the past couple of years, culminating in police involvement during 2004, when our wedding was preceded by several letters commenting on everything from our choice of wedding day (11th September) to whether I was entitled to a church wedding seeing as I am a liar and a cheat. More recently his parents started sending things to me, and his letters became increasingly upsetting, and that's when we decided to involve the police again. He was asked by them to stop writing; his response was to start writing letters to the police! He was asked to stop again; final warning. He wrote a letter to me that actually threatened me (smart guy, eh?). So on 23 July at 11 pm he was taken into custody and interviewed for a few hours. His parents bailed him out, apparently, and his mother telephoned mine to tell her how depraved I am. Yeah, cry me a river.

Anyway, you can imagine how difficult it was to tell my daughter. We decided to do it ourselves, rather than risk having her hear it from her father or grandparents, who would of course skew everything so that it was all my fault (because the police are always arresting people on my say so, don't you know). It's hard for her because she hears her father say that he's only trying to start a dialog with me about her. She can't understand that his letters are nothing to do with creating a dialog or building bridges but are simply a vehicle for abuse. And of course she wants to believe her father is a decent person. Mind you, deep down I think she knows that he has problems. About a week before we left, she came down and spoke to both Mr B and myself (unusual; it's usually just me) and spoke of how her father is always talking to her like she is a stand-in for me. "I am worried he's going to end up in the loony bin," she said, "He's so paranoid."

Daughter cried when we explained about the arrest (hell, even I cried; I never wanted it to end up like this) and I told her it was OK to feel angry and upset with me and with the situation and even with her dad. She went to spend some time on her own, but within hours she was talking to me and acting normally. She had a lot of heart-to-hearts with my younger sister who has the gift of being able to temper bluntness with humour, and my daughter shared the content of those talks with me (or at least some of it). By the end, she was happy to simply let it be the grown-ups' problem. In fact, when her grandmother called towards the end of our trip (yes, they can never let the child just enjoy her time in America) she took the call in full earshot of my sister and mother and was heard to tell her grandmother: "I don't want to hear it, Grandma. it's not my problem." What a kid!

She's now in France for 10 days on a school water-sports trip. By the time she's back, we should know whether her father will actually be charged with harassment or just given an official caution.

Arrgh! Enough about the exes; now for the Oh!s. Yesterday was my 20-week scan (and I am officially 20 weeks' pregnant tomorrow). I've made it to the halfway point and baby has all his/her fingers and toes and everything else it needs. And the kid yawned, I kid you not! RIght there on the monitor. I guess we were boring it. (Ha! Just wait 'til you're born, kid; we're the most boring people on the planet.) We did have the gender 'confirmed' (they never give you 100% certainty, but they were fairly confident in what they saw/didn't see) but we're not telling. Only my sister and best friend know! I will try to get the photos scanned so that I can post them via a link, but our scanner's shot, so I have to find someone at work to do it for me. Don't hold your breath! (But I do have the cutest shot of his/her little feet!)

It was all very emotional. I didn't cry, but I kept thinking about all the babies we had to lose to get to this place. And though I know that they simply weren't 'compatible with life', as they say, that something in their genetic make-up had gone wrong and they simply couldn't have lived, it still makes me sad to think what might have been for those sons and daughters of ours. And it just kills me that there are mothers and fathers going through the agony of repeated loss or inability to conceive right now. I just wish so much that I could fix it for everyone.

It's good to be back. Work is busy and the broadband at home is down, so I may not be able to post very much for the time being. But you know where to find me.