I decided I should probably pack my hospital bag, having heard of a friend-of-a-friend who was due the same day as me having her baby this week. The checklists online are long: I know I won’t use half the stuff, but still, you can’t show up empty handed entirely. Cue another bout of shopping. I needed nursing bras for one.
Now; these women are not pregnant. Those boobs are not feeding children. Look at their smug, arched-eyebrow, coy hair-tugging expressions staring out at me “haha preggo, look at the size of you, you’ll be needing these but not in these sizes. No sirree; look down you can see perfectly flat torsos under here – you can’t even see your feet right now.”
Asos, I love you but I ain’t buying what you’re selling.
This week I was sent for a growth scan due to a midwife I’d never met before thinking I was “a bit small”. I wasn’t too worried by that. As this is my third go round, I pretty much know what will happen my body during pregnancy. Still though, it did leave me with niggling doubts so I was anxious to have the scan as soon as possible. Note: telling a pregnant woman she’s very small is as big a no-no as telling her she’s massive. Actually, commenting unsolicited on another persons’ size full stop is not a great idea.
The next midwife I met looked at my chart and exclaimed “gosh you’ve had big enough babies for the size of you”. Medical professionals clearly can feel the need to make general outside-of-their-remit commentary about your physical appearance just as much as the punter on the bus.
The scan was fine. Baby is plotting on a chart that would put them in or around the same weight as the other pair.
All together now, gentle birthers, say it with me: My baby is the perfect size for my body.
Speaking of braving the crowds, the fella took a half day this week to bring the kids to see Santa. It was all reasonably civilised, we put our names down and prepared to come back at our assigned time slot. Though a couple of hours hanging around is a long time when my standing limit is about fifteen minutes. We made it through with a combination of frozen yogurt consumption and Disney store browsing.
We then had to wait a further forty-five minutes to see the man in red when we arrived back. I sat on the floor in a dignified manner, making “oof” noises every time we needed to shuffle up the queue. He was worth the wait. A glorious real-bearded, softly spoken gem of a Santa. He was also Canadian, which may not enhance the experience in actual Canada, but in Dublin speaks to a sort of snowy exoticism. He spoke to the boys at length about being good not to receive gifts but because it’s the right thing to do.