Creaaakkkkkk. Shuffle. That’s me moving around you can hear. Except for that day when I had a sudden burst of energy. There was sunshine and coffee, and some peacekeeping to be done between the big-brothers-in-waiting. Late pregnancy or not; they were in danger of killing each other left to their own devices so it seemed easier to make them gang up on me instead.
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.
I washed some small (seriously, adorably tiny) clothes, bought some water wipes and got my cloth nappies back from a friend. That means I’m ready for this child right? Mostly I’m trying to get some stuff done for the kids because every damn person keeps saying “sure you must be all sorted for christmas are you?” No, no I’m bloody not. The big fella, despite his birthday being 2 weeks later is pretty ok – I know what he needs and wants. The little one though, he talks in strings of words that are too confusing for google. “Blue power rangers dino mega zord weapon”.
I’m going to have to casually leave out the toy shop catalogue on the kitchen table and watch him. And Jelly Fun. Bloody Jelly Fun; it makes jelly so he thinks armed with this he’ll have a never ending supply as if I would let that happen. He’s taken a notion, and I feel like it’s going to be like The Great Mr Frosty Santa Refusal which took place in the years 1986-1989. I survived…
There was a meltdown followed by a very succesful trip to Ikea. The meltdown was triggered by me attempting to complete small tasks only to realise that there was a knock-on impact. Everything I tried to do seemed to generate eight more jobs for the list.
For example: the clean clothes from last week were teetering on the radiator in our bedroom with nowhere to put them. I mean nowhere. We needed to buy one piece of furniture for this child’s future bedrooom and there was already an overflowing bookcase in the spot where a small wardrobe could go. So we had to then go through all the crap contained there. There were baskets of more USB cables than any house could need, two boxes of files containing ten year old utility bills and bank statements. Stuff that cleary needed clearing out anyway. Next: to Ikea!
Fuelled by a cinnamon bun and some coffee I set off on my mission. I got all the small bits I needed quickly enough and entered the warehouse, taking a flatbed trolley for the wardrobe parts. My great plan was to stand looking a bit useless and asking a passing strong looking person to lift things off the shelf. I went to the information desk to ask something else where she took one look at me and asked did I need help getting anything. Why yes! Along came a Very Nice Man, who lifted a two metre long, twenty-six kilo box down for me, then pushed it to the checkout. I joined the queue and at the top the cashier said “do you need help getting those to the car” and I said why yes I do.
She rang someone and said “there’s a lady here with 2 trolleys needs a hand” Yeah that and the 8.5 month bump… Anyway she explained that they have people employed specifically to help you with this stuff. You don’t have to rely on a visible need (like my bump, or being elderly) and them taking pity on you – you just have to ask. Very Nice Man number two came to my car, cast a skeptical eye at first then hoiked the boxes in successfully (see above.)
I bought new maternity jeans. It’s not that I didn’t have any, I just didn’t have any left that fit. The Fancy Pants are only suitable for so many days of the week. So bless ASOS, I now have a new pair that I estimate I can wear 3/4 times a week for the next 8 weeks or so. That’s not bad value.
It was my birthday this week too. What I would enjoy most in the world for this occasion would be the ability to consume a beautiful meal with no heartburn, and a decent nights sleep. So I didn’t manage those, but we did go for a fabulous walk out into Dublin Bay to the Poolbeg Lighthouse and then celebrated with posh doughnuts. (I’ll be a long time waiting for a birthday cake to be baked for me) What more could a girl want?
On the day I turned 34 weeks, he who shall not be named was elected president of the US. A dark, dark day. My children will grown up in a world where a man (unsurprisingly, a straight, white man) can think a bit of celebrity endows you with the power to grab whatever part of a woman’s anatomy you like without consequence. And you know what, he’s right – because he has admitted to sexual assault and shown himself to be a misogynistic dickhead (among other things) and now he’s a leader of the free world.
This is not right; that this attitude has been internalised and accepted to a degree where it doesn’t matter to the voters. My eyes welled up with tears while folding laundry and listening to the morning’s breaking news, from sheer frustration. Frustration that rape culture is denied, that we struggle to bring in consent classes in our universities, that some people think women are actually treated equally in this world already and that there’s no need for feminism. About the only thing that calms me when I think about Trump is watching Samantha Bee verbally eviscerating him:
I attempted some retail therapy in the form of baby related shopping – I managed some giant maternity pads (x 100), breast pads (cannot wait for that leakage) and heat pads (current sciatica). All of the pads were bought then I gave up and went and bought some classy xmas decorations in Sostrene Grene. I’ll be the one home all December staring at them, so my grinchy tinsel ban remains firmly in place.
Dominic drew this, which cheered me up immensely, and I think sums up how surreal the whole scenario is.
It started with a squash. Some butternut squash soup to be precise. I don’t even love butternut squash, don’t tell me about it’s velvety sweetness – it does nothing for me. When I’m uninspired and not that hungry at lunchtime and I’m scared of tomato soup (heartburn) there’s not that many options in the fridge section of the local supermarket. Continue reading →