‘Twas the night before my birthday when all through the house, were great fears that the kids would soon be stirring, when I’d really rather they slept through until at least 7am. Even 6 would be good. No, 7. 7:30. I’m dreaming big here.
Growing up, I never thought I was particularly maternal. I still don’t, really. Having kids was always something I was sure I’d get around to doing at some point but I certainly didn’t have a spawning plan, like ‘have five before 35’ or ‘grow my own rugby team’ or ‘marry someone rich who can pay for a nanny so I can do reformer pilates four times a week’.
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.
If I wanted to get to the point of this blog quickly, the answer to my title would simply be, “Because I’m not an imbecile.”
But that doesn’t make for good reading (or maybe it does, I don’t know), so I should probably throw a few more paragraphs into the mix.
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.
Spawn #1 has gotten into the habit of waking up mid-whinge. He says “no” to literally everything. Most of the time he is lovely. Today he is the definition of an awful three-year-old and this morning he made me cry.
One day this week, Spawn #1 woke up with spots all over his face. The verdict? Hand, foot and mouth – emphasis on the ‘mouth’. If you’re a parent of a pre-schooler, you’ll know what’s up.
For the last 165434444 months a steady stream of green snot has also been streaming out of Spawn #1’s nose. On top of that, he regularly has a cough that keeps him up at night.
Yesterday afternoon, he had a temperature of 39.6 which went down to 38.something after I force-fed him all the drugs. Last night while I was at work, Husband called to say that our small human’s temp had spiked to 41.2. We both thought the thermometer was broken, but just in case I sent them off to A&E and we paid a nurse $60 to feed Spawn #1 5mls of Pamol which we could’ve done ourselves at home. (She also ruled out meningitis which we couldn’t have done ourselves so I guess we got our money’s worth.)
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.