“Are you ok? How many times have you wee’d tonight? Any sign of the mucus?”
Such is the sexy refrain from the fella during my now hourly runs to the toilet in the dead of the night. It’s nearly the end of my prego journey and there’s still no sign of the little fella, despite lots of promising twinges and ohhh-that-might-have-been-a-contraction’s. Every night when I go to sleep I think to myself that it might be the last night the fella and I have together, and every morning I wake up to NO BLOODY BABY!
My mother has been amazing. She has taken on the role of babysitting/amusing me while the fella is at work, and to be honest, I think I would have lost it altogether by now if it wasn’t for her. The combined fear of the baby not coming with the idea that he might arrive in such a rush while I’m on my own that I won’t have time to boil some water and I’ll end up splattering baby juice all over my walls is quite the heady combination, I assure you.
I’m doing everything you’re supposed to; cleaning lots, bouncing on my birthing ball, having severe chats with the bump. Eating pineapple is an olympic sport for me at the moment and I’ve started to take Evening Primrose Oil to, and I quote “ripen my cervix.” I know – gross. I am not taking it the way you’re meant to though – which is sticking it in your fanny – some things are too much.
Today, I plan to walk the baby out of me. My love affair with Oprah Winfrey of last week has officially died a death, and if I find myself getting excited because the Ellen show is on in an hour again I’ll kill myself. So, I’m taking my bump and my arse toning runners to the streets in the vague hope that the little fella decides that today is the day… wish me luck!