12:27pm: T minus approximately one hour and three minutes until my very first Countdown online grocery order delivery window starts. Feeling very very very excited. Like, I’m more excited about this delivery than I am about meeting my unborn child. I know. I’m a monster. But these are groceries and if it goes well this time around, I may never have to set foot inside a bloody supermarket ever again.
Today I am 38ish weeks pregnant. If this was my first pregnancy, I would 100% know plus how many days – probably hours – I am, but this time around I feel like that’s way too much life admin so “38ish weeks”, “almost 39 weeks” or “due next Friday” will do.
… Due next Friday? Um. Really? Okaaaaaay … So I’m having a baby soon. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool.
When I got home from dropping the car off for a service this morning (#lifeadmin), I was greeted by at least 40 flies lazily hanging out in my lounge. Maybe I’m exaggerating. I don’t know. I don’t care either. It seems like every living fly in the world is currently in my house and they keep landing on me and the other night one landed in my evening glass of milk and drowned and I’m so frustrated I think I might throw something.
“Whoa, are you sure there’s only one in there?”
“Did you say you’re six months along? You look at least seven.”
“I’d love to say you’re looking lovely and skinny but…”
“You’ve put on so much weight I wouldn’t recognise you if I passed you in the street!”
I’m pregnant and huge and out of breath after reading two Thomas the Tank Engine stories followed up by a chaser of The Gruffalo, and frankly I’d quite like to have a cuppa tea and a lie-down in front of Ali Wong. But it is Spawn #1’s third birthday tomorrow and I’ve got to get my Mum on. There are presents to wrap, balloons to inflate and (most importantly to Spawn #1), cake to bake. Besides, cups of tea at this time of night aren’t exactly wise, given that I already have to get up three times in the night for a wee despite forced dehydration post-3pm.
1. Belly laugh every day.
2. Have a shower every day. Or at least every second day. Or at least least, twice a week. (Washing hair optional.)
3. Stop finding food on my clothes six hours after my child wiped it there.*
A new French patisserie has recently opened just down the road from Husband’s office. I know this because he came home from work one day and like the good wife I am I asked, “So how was your day?” and he replied “OMG A NEW FRENCH PATISSERIE HAS OPENED JUST DOWN THE ROAD AND THEY HAVE A DEAL AT THE MOMENT – SIX DOLLARS FOR A COFFEE AND A PASTRY!” and then I looked at our bank statement and thought, “How many times have you visited them today, bro – that’s half our grocery shopping budget gone already.”
My dad is the smartest man I know, and I know a lot of men. Wait. That makes me sound like a sluzza. Um. That’s not what I meant. I mean I just know a lot of male humans. In life. Generally. Anyway. My dad.
I follow a bunch of people on Instagram whom I’ve never met, and I’m unlikely to ever meet unless I accidentally bump into them while getting lost on Ponsonby Road because I’m looking for McDonald’s on Great North Road and somehow I turn right and end up on the most fashionable street in Auckland wearing faded cargo pants that I wore when I was pregnant and white Chucks that are no longer white, and I walk straight into them trying to use Google Maps on my iPhone 5s that has a cracked screen so I can barely see anything on it and accidentally spill their trim flat soy lattechino all over their Kate Sylvester cardy. Or something.
All the men in my family are big history buffs. I, on the other hand, only passed Year 13 History because of my superpower that enables me to pull well-constructed sentences out of my butt, not because of my ability to remember when King George the Whateverth beheaded someone.