Smitten with my kitten

My baby is 19 days old but he already makes me laugh every day.

Take his waking up procedure, for example. Since this kid is jaundiced and sleeps a lot, I have to wake him up every 2-3 hours so he can eat. He returns from dreamland very slowly, lets out a massive yawn, wrinkles his forehead, arches his back and streeeetches his arms. Like waking up from a seven year slumber. And his face goes through a spectrum of emotions: concerned, thoughtful, confused, grumpy, annoyed and then, for the great finale, angry! Erik lets out a couple of coughs that lead to a loud cry, his face turns red, arms are waving and legs are kicking. Finally he’s ready for supper.

He is the loudest eater ever; he moans happily when sucking and swallows hard. Sometimes he will take a short break and let out a burp. Or let out a big fart or a massive poo. Not the kind of kid you would take to the Nobel Prize dinner party.

After eating he will usually drift off to sleep. And even here he makes me chuckle. He makes the strangest noises, snorts and grunts like an 80 year old.

If I can have this much fun with a baby this young, then I cannot wait for him to grow older.

Milk, the goodness of it

It’s official: I’m now a Jersey cow with fatty, creamy milk, rich enough to feed an entire village. Or at least a coffee shop.

The midwife came today to weigh Erik, and I was holding my breath as he hasn’t been putting on weight fast enough despite my ambitious feeding programme. But I needn’t worry. He has gained 180 grams in four days! I was so happy. This makes me even more motivated to keep waking him for food every couple of hours. And what a cool thought that something that I can provide, breastmilk, is enough to nurture an entire little person. No formula needed. Just mommy’s milk and lots of love.

I will keep this thought in mind that next time he has a bad latch and bites me in the nipple…

Adjusting

It’s a lazy Sunday; I’m sitting in my sunny livingroom, the TV is on, the dishwasher is running and my baby is sleeping in the sun in his pram.

Erik is 16 days old and seems to slowly recover from the jaundice. The suntanning is supposed to be good for that. He isn’t that yellow anymore and seems now more alert and interested in interacting with us. He’s still very sleepy durning the day and I need to wake him up very 2.5 hours for feeding. During the night he typically wakes up once for food, so I actually get about five hours of sleep a night. Not bad at all!

I’m slowly adjusting to mummyhood. Physically and mentally I feel much better than last week. All my medication made me groggy and my emotions went from high to low. I was so infatuated with him, yet at the same time I was afraid of the enormity of it all. Will I be able to step up to the challenges of parenting? How will I cope without any family nearby? How will I deal with the practicalities of getting around with a baby? And I was worried sick that I didn’t have enough milk for him (but a day later I had enough milk to supply a whole coffeeshop!).

And in my ‘raw’ state I missed my family a lot and called my sisters, who are both mothers, everyday. My husband has been home these two weeks and he has been very supportive. He returns to work this week by my in-laws are here now to keep me company.

Pictures of our beautiful babe to come soon!

Holy crap, I have a baby!

My life changed forever last Friday with the birth of a beautiful baby boy….. Our yet-to-be-named baby was born early Friday morning after a long and tough labour (much more about that later). He was 6lbs, 8oz (2960g). And funnily enough, he was born on my birthday! That’s one helluva birthday present.

We were so taken by surprise as I thought for sure I’d go for full 40 weeks. The nursery is still under construction. There’s baby stuff all over the house. But we are coping well. Mummy’s smitten with her kitten… He’s so lovely and cuddly and we are already in love with him. Aaaaahhhh…

An amazing journey has begun….

The heartless way of Bringing Up Baby (37+6)

The twin babies are in a room by themselves, crying their little hearts out. Outside the door stands a woman in a nurse uniform, defending her view why nobody should enter the room and console the babies. “They are only crying for attention”, she says. “I’ll show them who’s boss.”

The second episode of Channel 4’s ‘Bringing Up Baby’ aired last night, and again I was horrified by this woman and the methods she promotes. How can Claire Verity possibly think that babies are cunning, that they are forming conscious manipulative thoughts? Babys run on instinct, and cry when they are hungry, tired, want a fresh nappy, or whatever their needs might be. They are not crying with a purposeful motive of bossing their parents around.

Furthermore, Verity only allows ten (10) minutes of cuddle time a day. Ten minutes??? Why even bother having a baby if you are not allowed to love and cuddle it?

She also doesn’t allow visitors to come to the house, and, in particular, handling the baby in any way. In one family that Verity ‘cares’ for, the grandmother made an unannounced visit and came within viewing distance of the baby. She was swiftly ushered away by the embarrassed father. I mean, how dare she go and have a look at her grandchild?

Verity handles babies in seemingly heartless manner, and by that I mean the lack of love and empathy in her movements when touching them. But if you think of her viewpoint, that babies are attention-seeking, manipulative creatures who need to be shown who’s boss, you can understand why.

Letter to child (37+4)

Dear Child, 

I must say I have enjoyed our close relationship over the past few months, but I’m afraid it must come to an end very soon. Yes, dear, that means an end to the 24-hour womb service.

Soon it’s time for your to stand on your own two feet, however wobbly. But until then, we need to discuss our current living arrangement to make your parents’ lives a bit more pleasant. Baby, a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T isn’t too much to ask for.

First, I know that your room is getting small, but really, there’s no need to punch your fists and headbutt the walls. This only puts a strain on mummy’s plumbing and sewer systems. Frankly, your shenanigans are sometimes painful and I’m worrying about subsequent leakage upon your departure. And funnily enough, your mad boxing activies often coincide with me trying to relax in the TV sofa at night. 

Also, the amount of waste you create takes a toll on me. I’m up every night like clockwork, emptying the buckets, and it’s a bit tiring by now.

So if you could please have just a little consideration to those living around you, that would be great.

I’m glad we had this talk.

Respectfully Yours,

Mamma Mia            

The breast of times, possibly the worst of times (37+1)

I have a good pair of friends; let’s call them B-cup one and two. Not too big, not too small, just the right size to create some cleavage for a night out (ok, alright, this happens thanks to a good push up bra). However, our future relationship is on the line. They are in for some rough weather: pain, engorgement, and months of a baby sucking the life of them. And then my perception of them will change. No longer they will be perceived as sexy objects (well, as perceived by my husband, hopefully). No, from now on I will be more concerned about milk production capabilities than how they fill a nice top. It’s official, I’m about to become a cow!

We talked about breastfeeding at my antenatal class yesterday. From some reason I always thought it looked easy; the baby eating away happily and the mother watching her, smiling. But apparently it is hard work and it can take weeks before mom and baby get the hang of it. Sounds like a hungry baby, frustration and tears to me. What have we signed up for, girls?

And then I’m wondering how it feels like to have baby sucking at your breasts. I’m pretty funny how they are manhandled at the best of times.

However, I’m happy to give it my breast go (ha ha ha). There are so many benefits, and I like the idea of being able able to nourish my baby all by myself.

Besides, boob jobs aren’t that expensive anymore are they? I bet you can have one done at Tesco while doing your weekly shopping.

How to Bring Up Baby? (36+6)

What’s the best way to raise a baby? Do you put the baby on a strict feeding regime from day one, making sure to tell it who is boss? Or do you sleep with the baby and always carry him around in a sling, letting him suckle your breast as he wishes?

My husband and I watched, rather wide-eyed at times, ‘Bringing Up Baby’ on Channel 4 last night. The show features six British families raising their babies according to three dramatically methods, each coached by an expert.

Claire Verity advocates the strict 1950s view that children should me made a part of your life, and if the little creatures doesn’t agree with that, too bad. Let it cry. Feeding (by bottle preferably) is every four hours, no matter if the baby is hungry or not. No cuddling while feeding. Instead you should hold the baby away from your body ’so it doesn’t doze off’. In between feedings the child should be put outside to sleep in their pushchair. You should not tend to him if he cries. Then at night, the baby is put in his cot ( in a separate room from the parents) at exactly 7pm. You do not enter the room except for feeding every four hours until 7am. The happy end result, says Claire, is a baby who will sleep and eat textbook-style, and within weeks the baby will sleep through the night.

And on the other end of spectrum we have new-age mummy Claire Scott who promotes the Continuum Concept which blossomed in the 1970s. These babies are raised as those in Amazon jungle tribes. They always sleep with their parents and they are always carried in a sling with unlimited access to the breast. Pushchairs are simply not used. The result is a happy, confident baby who rarely cries, says Scott.

Dreena Hamilton takes the middle road with Dr Spock’s ‘trust yourself’ theory. Being a parent is about loving and bonding with your baby, in a non-routine sort of way. The parents should adjust to having a baby and should not expect to have their old life back in any way. Dr Spock won fame in the 1960s, perhaps as a reaction to the military-style parenting the decade before?

Let’s start with Ms. Verity. Oh where to begin…. First, how can a newborn possibly be expected only to eat four hours? They have very small stomachs. So how can you possibly ignore your crying baby when you know his hungry? But the worst about this method is that it doesn’t allow for any bonding between parent and child. You feed the baby, change the nappy and put it away, that’s it! Nothing in this world will be able to stop me from cuddling with my baby. They are made for loving, so soft and round and wonderful. If you don’t interact with your baby, you don’t bond with him, and it makes it harder to love and really care about him. And the baby thrives on human interaction, in fact it’s vital for their development. I really find it difficult to believe that Verity’s babies can possibly develop very well. They might sleep through the night very soon, but are they happy babies who are confident their needs are met?

But I don’t like the Continuum Concept which falls in line with the annoying ‘back-to-nature’ theme of today’s trendy mummies. This method might work well in jungle tribes, but we don’t live there now, do we? Woman in tribal societies carry their babies for practical reasons; in order to get their work done they carry their babies with them. A bit hard to fetch water from the well with the baby in a pushchair, isn’t it? Our Western lifestyle is so different to theirs that we possibly couldn’t just apply their parenting style to ours. And if you are constantly carrying your baby around, be prepared to do that when they are older…and heavier.

Dr Spock’s ideas are the most appealing, but certainly not perfect. I think I prefer more structure.

To quote what my husband said last night: ‘This is scary. What have we gotten ourselves into?’

I want a water baby (36 weeks, 4 days)

My spirits are oh so high now that a kite on speed could never catch up.

This afternoon I attended a waterbirth workshop at the hospital where I will give birth, and I was reminded that a) labour can be a positive experience and b) the little outcome is so fantastic. Soon I will cradle my own baby in my arms, wow… incredible….

We watched a video of women giving birth in a birthing pool and they had such positive experiences. They didn’t scream in agony; instead they breathed deeply and pushed lots. Some even caught the baby as it popped out. And most babies didn’t cry upon entering this world; instead they looked calm and content and gazed curiously at their mother. Both mom and dad were in the water and the three of them were bonding instantly. So beautiful…sob. (Had to blink away a tear at this point.)

Another great thing about water births is that you are less likely to tear. This has to do with the soothing properties of the water, but also that you will push when it feels right so the perineum stretches gradually. This is music to my ears!

As a side note, if you plan to use the birthing pool, you should bring a sieve so the (lucky) midwife can, ahem, clean the pool once you’re done…

The hospital’s birth centre has only one pool, so I won’t know until I get there if it’s available, and if so, my labour needs to be assessed low-risk in order to use it. In any case, all rooms in the birth centre, and those in the labour ward for that matter, have large bath tubs so at least I can use water as pain relief.

I left with a sense of joy, that no matter how this baby makes a debut, be it in water or via an emergency caesarean, it’ll be alright. I’m in good hands. Can’t wait to see you babe!

Barbie vs. twigs (36 weeks, 1 day)

Sometimes I feel like rebelling against all these sugary-sweet baby paraphernalia. Everything in children buying land is so damn cutsey and Disney like. Girls must wear pink and play with dolls and boys wear blue and play with firetrucks. It’s so, so boring. Children are seemingly destined to a childhood with either Barbie or G.I. Joe. Then girls are expected to have little tea parties with their little girlie friends while boys are building train tracks or playing football with their dad outside.

I refuse! My children shall play with twigs and pine cones from our backyard, and they shall make fortresses out of large delivery boxes.

And I will not paint the nursery blue or pink! Instead there will be black walls, pet spiders from the garden, and piped in Ozzy music.

Ok fine. I will settle for yellow and Winnie the Pooh.

I have a dream (36 weeks tick, tock)

The atmosphere in the delivery room is calm. The labouring woman is in the birthing pool, breathing calmly and deeply through the contractions that are becoming increasingly stronger. Her husband is by her side, occasionally mopping her sweaty forehead. Bach’s ‘Air’ is playing in the background and a hint of sandlewood incense is filling the room.

She has been labouring for five hours, but she knows that she can get through this, and soon she will hold a beautiful baby in her arms. Sometimes she inhales gas at the height of each contraction, but it’s really her mental state that gets her through. As each wave of pain washes over her, she surrenders and allows it to sweep her away. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is deep and rhythmic.

Suddenly she knows it’s time. She climbs out of the pool and grabs hold of its edge. She spreads her legs and bends her knees slightly, her naked body glistening in the morning sun seeping through the window. Connecting to all the earth mothers before her, she pushes hard three times and suddenly heaven’s gates open, the angels sing, and a baby is born. Hallelujah!

Well, this would be nice wouldn’t it? Feeling in control, being in awe of how powerful the body is to expel the baby, and embracing the pain instead of fearing it. This is how I’d like the events to unfold. But I wouldn’t surprise me if the opposite happens, i.e. epidural, episiotomy, catheter, forceps, cone headed cranky baby, stiches and backache. I know, it’s the end result that’s really important, but I think the journey to the end destination matters too.

I’m not (completely) opposed to an epidural, hell I might just cry for one myself, but this painkilling method is unappealing for various reasons. First, it’s the idea of having a massive needle inserted into your spine. Yikes. What if they mess up? Then labour may slow down and in the end you may need an instrumental delivery. But mostly it’s the idea of not being in control that I dislike. Not being able to move around as I like. Lying in bed like a vegetable and relying on the midwife to know when to push. Oh how I dislike the thought of needles and syringes, stirrups and scrubs. I find it so passive, undignified even. I would like to play the lead role in the drama of my own birth experience; I don’t want to be the movie extra.

Secrets of a baby whisperer

In preparation for the Pending Big Event, I’ve started to read Tracy Hogg’s ‘Secrets of the Baby Whisperer’. I think it will be a great help, and have ordered Spouse to read it too.

This Yorkshire lady is all about common sense, and I like that. Generally speaking, she says the baby should be made a part of your life, not vice versa. See the baby as an individual, and establish a routine (E.A.S.Y. = Eating, Activity, Sleeping, Your time) around her personality. That way both the baby and you know what’s ahead.

Hogg divides babies’ personalities into five broad categories:

1. Angel baby (a lovely cooing little being who rarely cries)

2. Textbook baby (an easy, predictable little critter)

3. Touchy baby (a baby sensitive to light, noise. A bit more challenging)

4. Spirited baby (a baby who knows what she likes and who will holler when her nappy is soiled!)

5. Grumpy (Oh boy. A baby who is just plain unhappy and will cry about anything. Try to find a babysitter for this one.)

I must admit that I felt a bit of chill down my spine when I read this bit in bed, 4:30 am yesterday morning. I don’t want a grumpy baby! I want a lovely smiley cuddly thing that sleeps lots, an Angel baby. This is what we all want. I didn’t order a baby who cries at strangers and is hopeless to put to sleep. But this is the thing about pregnancy; we cannot control what we end up with. One of your eggs merges with one sperm out of millions. You can end up with any baby with any kind of personality (or disease or disability), and you must deal with it. It’s a bit like diving off a steep cliff. You’ve taken reasonable precautions – such as checking that water is deep enough – but in the end you must take a leap of faith that it all will be alright.

My pregnancy has been such a breeze, so it wouldn’t surprise me if I end up with a challenging baby. If so, I think the best way to handle that is to accept the baby for what she is, and find a way of caring for her that works.

I don’t expect the heavens to open with singing angels when my baby is born. You need to know someone before you can love someone. I think the first few days home from the hospital will be exhausting, stressful and tearful. But I know we will soon adore the boy or girl for what they are, be it a grumpy baby or an angel!

On growth

One weird thing about pregnancy is that everything grows, tummy, boobs, thighs, and, not to be left out, the ass.

For me, internally, a fibroid has be growing too. It’s an abnormal muscle growth on the uterine wall and can cause problems if it grows big and is the way of the baby’s exit. A 22-week scan revealed a smallish one on the posterior wall, and I had another one last week to check whether it has grown. Well the sonographer didn’t see any evidence of any ‘roid. I met with a consultant this morning and he said the fibroid is actually outside the womb so there are no risks of complications. V. good!

Now this means I’m going au natural, and that I have to squeeze out a big ass baby sometime next month. Alert status: red!

You know your’re preoccupied with labour/delivery/babies when…

…you see a dog and admire its panting technique and excellent downward-dog posture

…you wonder why the waitress asks if you want a Caesarian on the side of your steak

…you can’t buy ground beef or large lumps of meat because they look like a placenta. Oh yuk

…you are rather horrified to see a pair of forceps in the salad bowl when at a friend’s house for dinner

…you won’t buy any tops unless they provide holes in convenient places for breastfeeding

…you opt for skinny noodles instead of fat ones to avoid macabre thoughts of eating an umbilical cord

…you put a diaper on a ciabatta just to practice

…you have a lot of sympathy for cows in the way that their offspring handle their teats.

About waiting

Here I am, 34 weeks along…..

My October 18 due date is approaching quickly and I’m about 10 light years away from being ready. I’m crossing my legs; this baby shall not be expelled until after the 18th!

It takes forever to get a home ready for a baby when you don’t have furniture to begin with. It’s hard to find things you like for a decent price that can be delivered this side of Christmas. Then, when they do deliver, they can’t give you an ETA so you have to wait all day, worst-case scenario, for them to arrive. Today I’m waiting for IKEA’s Leksvik nursery furniture (anytime between 8-5pm!) and two wardrobes. Grr! Don’t they know people have lives filled with pregnancy yoga and baby shopping!

I had a scan last Friday and saw the midwife on the same day. The baby is 2.5 kg (!) and of perfectly normal size. I’m doing very well too, neither diabetic or anemic. The scan didn’t reveal whether or not I have a fibroid on the back uterine wall (there was a fat baby in the way!) so I will meet with consultant this week to decide on a course of action. But I’m not too concerned about that. I’m more worried about this babe arriving early. Stay put please!

What’s in my head (content equal to that in my bladder)

Random thoughts from a 32-week pregnant woman, in no particular order:

• I’m sitting on a camping chair in my livingroom, laptop in lap. I am wondering how we can get livingroom furniture, bedroom furniture, and a nursery set up before the baby arrives, especially since the delivery times in the UK are ridiculously long.
• I’m trying to figure out the x and y of the baby. I have a couple of lumpy spots at the top of the stomach, under my breasts, and I’m assuming one of them is the baby’s head. Shouldn’t it be turning south by now? Maybe I should be exercising on my hands and kneeds to facilitate turning…
• You feel a need to pee. Hurry to the toilet, only to squeeze out a few measly drops. And you think: I rushed here for that?
• I have four more days of work, how weird is that? Next Monday morning I’ll be snoozing in bed while my husband gets ready for work, and it’ll feel like a bit like taking a sick day when you’re not sick…
• I used to do a 5K morning run and then take a 60-minute walk to work. Now I’m developing lactic acid after walking 15 steps up the escalator. Pathetic!
• I’m sleeping either on my left or right side, a pillow under my bent top leg and the other leg is straight. Sometime in the middle of the night I will heave myself onto the other side, as athletic as a 90-year-old woman. After a little trip to the bathroom, of course.

End of a flying era

I’ll be boarding a plane tomorrow. I’ll be sitting in my seat, comfortably reading a book, eating something sweet, occasionally looking out the window, pondering the upcoming 10 days of relaxation with family.

I’ll enjoy every minute of my journey, as my next one will look a whole lot different. It will be just before Christmas and Hubby and I will take our new addition for his/her maiden voyage to meet my family for the first time. Instead of reading I will worry about keeping our baby happy, along with Hubby and surrounding passengers. Instead of joining the Mile High Club, I’ll be attempting to change a fussy baby in a toilet the size of a wardrobe.

Oh dear. And have I mentioned that we have family in North America? Very shortly I’ll become one of those people I used to pity, watching how they wrestle uncooperative children into their seats, fielding disapproving looks from fellow passengers. I have to come up with coping strategies. For example, if my child’s voice reverberates throughout the cabin, my inner yoga voice could chant ‘OOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM’.

Tomorrow will be very nice indeed. Bring on the Toblerone!

14 random Mia facts

1. I sleep with an eye mask, mouth guard and a bra. That paints a nice picture.

2. I make cashew butter from scratch with olive oil. Mmm.

3.  I will never put a bow or other silly headpieces on my child’s head for special occasions.

4. I think dolls are pretty scary. I’ve heard they come to life when you’re not watching.

5. I once came running out of a nightclub in Italy to throw up and pass out on the road. A little later I was sick on the beach, puked on my boyfriend’s feet and tried to kiss him. He ended up marrying me.

6.  I can say ‘Do I have to hit you in the mouth’ in Dutch.

7.  I was a witch in a former life which explains my interest in herbs, brooms, rocks, and reluctance to cut my hair short.

8. I took Latin in school. All I can remember is ‘in vino veritas’. And yes, there’s truth in vine, certainly at the bottom of the bottle.

9. I once met Steven Adler, former member of Guns n’ Roses. He had red marks on his feet after heroine injections. Rock on!

10. I’m a huge fan on Astrid Lindgren’s childrens’ books and plan to read them all to my children.

11. I think moist wipes is the best invention since flushing toilets. Try them!

12. I have an aunt who’s convinced there is an afterlife. I’m waiting for her to pass so she can tell me. She’s 90.

13. I used to pick up worms from the pavement on my way to school on rainy days. Some save rainforests, I aim for the smaller things.

13. I CAN read a map. Don’t listen to what my husband says.

Virtual birth

Gives you an idea of what’ll happen… I can’t help but think ‘ouch’.

Beginning the Final Chapter

Ladies and gentlemen…. (drumroll please) I am now entering my last and final trimester. 26 weeks. 26 weeks!! It seems like yesterday Hubby and I were staring at that positive pregnancy test. Time needs to slow down just a bit because:

1. We are not close to finalising our house purchase, and won’t be moving in for another month.

2. Once there, we need to get a) a fridge, b) livingroom furniture c) something to sleep on until overseas shipment arrives, and then continue furnishing an entire house.

3. I don’t have one essential baby item, nor do I have any idea as to which crib, buggy or car seat to buy.

4. I haven’t even started to make arrangements to find a birth centre close to my new dwelling, so I don’t have to travel 800 miles in labour to where I’m currently at.

5. I haven’t started to prepare mentally for the Birth. I know that what goes in (very pleasureable) must come out (outmost unpleasurable) but that Event seems light years away still. [Well, the similarity between Input and Output is that both have a climax at the end.]

But looking back at these 26 weeks, I couldn’t ask for a better pregnancy. No morning sickness, mood swings or fatigue. Dramatic skin improvement. Hair only needs washing a couple of times at week; leg hair growth has halted. I’m happy, the baby is healthy and kicking, and my husband is loving and attentive. I’m a lucky, lucky woman.

Gymnastics at 25 weeks

My little monster is kicking lots now. I can feel kicks sporadically throughout the day, but the gymnastics sessions are definitely scheduled for nighttime…when I’m lying in bed. I love just lying there, watching my stomach bouncing from the kicks. It’s the weirdest thing. There’s definitely a little human being in there! Sometimes I can feel the baby turn under my hand, like a seal would swim under a sheet of ice. So very cool.

Life must be pretty nice for the little baby. Constantly warm bath water. Thumbs to suck on. Soothing stomach noises. Why ever come out?

I’m pregnant! Cheers!

Pregnant women 20 years ago lived the easy life. They had enjoyed their coffee, smoked salmon hors d’oeuvres and sipped the occasional glass of wine. Now an expecting lady almost face crucifixion if she has a glass of red in public.

Naturally, getting wasted is the worst possible idea, but surely a spot of wine with dinner won’t cause permanent damage. Just look at the French! They are drinking happily in moderation and round off their meal with a lovely Camembert. In North America this behaviour could cause outrage and ridicule. Look at what happened to Gwyneth Paltrow who had some wine with dinner in New York when she was pregnant…

I think being pregnant is about exercising common sense. Eating a balanced and healthy diet, avoiding raw foods. Exchanging sky diving for yoga. Not spending hours sunbathing. It’s really not that difficult. We don’t need a bunch of experts telling us what do do (or what not to do!), nor do we need strangers giving us the evil eye. Cheers to that!

Preggie friend and paperclips

Good news pour moi today…. Turns out my pregnant friend from Down Under has decided to have her baby in London and not fly home until next spring. Even better, she and her hubby are looking to rent a flat in the same area that we will hopefully move to this summer (unless someone gazumps us). Hurray, one mummy I will know in my new neighbourhood!

Attended my first pregnancy yoga class tonight. Relaxing yet energetic. But a sad reminder of how much muscle strengh I’ve lost; I mean really how difficult can it be to lift and rotate your foot? We also did pelvic floor exercises in a squatting position. Soon I’ll be able to lift bricks with them; alternatively be able to pick up miscellaneous things from the floor without bending, say needles or paperclips.

On my way home I got my first public recognition of my Condition. A fruit vendor said ‘keep that baby healthy’ when giving me my change. Hah! Comments like that are worth more than a seat on the underground.

Size really doesn’t matter

I’m at 23 weeks now, and am finally starting to show a bit. Although I’m no show stopper yet and nobody has offered me a seat on the tube yet (but my 19 weeks pregnant friend has three and counting!). But I have a nice little belly and I should probably be glad I’m not carrying around extra fat (well, not too much anyway) or am retaining water.

And I have medical evidence that everything’s fine despite my small size. I had the anomaly scan this week and the baby is developing perfectly according to the charts. Then my midwife measured my tummy a few days later and I’m ‘bang on’ for my dates. Ha! So there!

Size doesn’t matter

There is only one time in a woman’s life when being big is good. This time is now. Being large implies carrying a healthy, strong baby, thus successfully forwarding your genes to the next generation. Being large does of course really mean anything at all. Some women just don’t show much, some do.

Being small is somewhat annoying though. I met a friend yesterday and she’s four weeks behind me. So logically I should be bigger. But I’m not. In fact I’m not showing at all in the picture we took of both of us! Damned! I shall stuff a pillow under my tummy so I can get a seat on the tube, like she gets!

Big day tomorrow though. Anomaly scan (why can’t they come up with a better name for it??) at 4pm. I can then tell the world about the enormous size of our baby that somehow finds room in my little belly.