My first week of maternity leave is here.
“Enjoy it while you can!”
“Get lots of sleep!”
“Put your feet up and do nothing!”
Some nuggets of advice as impending motherhood approaches. Ah, if only it were that easy! Ok, so admittedly the physical relaxation part hasn’t been the most taxing. Helped no end by the fact I’ve acquired the body and energy levels of a beached whale. The sofa is my new BFF. My husband making thumping noises as I gingerly come down the stairs is not.
Maternity leave: Hello afternoon naps! Nice to meet you, glorious crap on daytime TV! Bonjour, rubbish Christmas playlists introduced by Z-list celebs! All most welcome. But there’s a problem. Despite the body being more than willing, the mind is accelerating faster than Lewis Hamilton on race day. What should I be doing? There are things I should be doing. Cleaning. Sorting. More important than that, it’s time to think properly about THE BIRTH.
Until last week, work had kept me ticking along nicely. But maternity leave has handed me the gift of time. Time to realise that the biggest event of my life will be occurring over the next few weeks. And it’s come as a shock. Who knows when it will happen? Who knows where? (Ok, in hospital I’m hoping). I should be reading more baby books. I should be doing my pelvic floor exercises. I should be bouncing on my big pink ball while simultaneously hoping it doesn’t burst at any minute due to my heifer-like status.
Instead I’m eating iced minced pies while the strains of “Mistletoe and Wine” (Children Singing Christian Rhymes…Everyone Sway!) blare from the telly. All the while debating in my head whether the birth might not be quite as bad if I envisage it to be horrific. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ve got it sorted. Reverse psychology and all that.
I’m also thinking about wine. Not during the birth of course. Although that might be nice. I could start a business that administers it intravenously. A nice big fat glass of Sauvignon Blanc. “I’ve not missed alcohol at all”, I’ve proudly told people during this pregnancy. Yeah, well that’s changed this week. What a prat I am.
And I miss my clothes. Ah ha ha, remember that time when I thought anything around a size 12 meant I was getting fat! My naivety astounds me. Anything I can squeeze my ‘rotund’* frame into now is at least a size 16. And thank god our scales are broken at the moment. Something I was not responsible for. Ok? OK???
The mood swings have been interesting. Everything’s wonderful! Everything’s awful! I’m so excited about the baby. But…I’m…just…so…tired…and…nervous…and…scared… SNIFF. SOB. Can you bring through the chocolate please?
The grumpiness. Grrrrr. That’s the only way to sum it up. Grrrr….Furrowed brow and crazy eyes.
Conversations are also becoming increasingly bizarre. Here’s a snapshot of today’s exchange:
Me: “I feel like a warthog.”
Me: “It’s not funny. I don’t even really know what a warthog looks like. But that’s what I am.”
Husband: “It’s the animal from The Lion King, isn’t it? You know, the one that sings Hakuna Matata.”
Me: “Oh, in that case I’m not a warthog then. I’m much bigger than that.”
Husband: “But it’s just the Circle of Life, isn’t it” *Laughs
Me: Death Stare.