Waiting to Evict the Prawn from the Big Mother House

So, it’s official- the Prawn is now considered to be fully cooked. (37 w, 4d) Any time that he or she elects to stay inside is just “browning the crust,” as Mr. DD puts it.

It’s slightly alarming to think that this whole circus could kick off at any minute. While I know that labour isn’t exactly like someone waiting around the corner to go “BOO!”, I’m still kind of walking around looking behind all the doorframes, if you know what I mean. From what I’ve been told, labour is rather more like an annoying person with a sharp stick who starts poking you gently at first, but becomes increasingly malevolent.

While, after 3 years and two miscarriages, I’m hugely thankful for this giant, uncomfortable bump in my midsection, it is becoming harder to function from day to day. I dare not complain overmuch- I’ve had a blessedly comfortable pregnancy up until around about a week ago when it suddenly occurred to me that it was no longer possible to put on my own socks, stand up from a sitting position on the floor without assistance or not kill things with my flatulence. (Seriously, man, I used to be able to get away with a sneaky, silent, non-deadly toot. Now even I have to leave the room.) Although I know that the time is coming rapidly that I will not be able to spend much time in my unbelievably comfortable new bed, at least I will not be winded any just from the effort of putting my head down on the pillow.

The nursery is mostly finished. Whether we have everything that we need or not remains to be seen. (Like I said, we’re totally clueless and pretty much just dumped everything in the cart that looked like it would be useful) The crib is mostly set up, all of the Prawn art is in place, the changing table is ready and my parents and aunt have generously decided to buy us a rocking chair for Prawn-related feeding activities.

I am vaguely concerned about our choice of wardrobe for the Prawn- looking at the size of my belly and at the size of the newborn clothes that we’ve picked up, I am slightly worried that this child will look like a sumo wrestler stuffed into a schoolgirl’s uniform, so it’s conceivable that we might have to stop off on the way home from the hospital with a completely naked baby to get clothes that do not strangle him/her. “For infants up to 10 lbs” my ass.

There are 2 baby books, sitting mostly unopened on the coffee table and one in my bedside drawer, where I locked it after becoming afraid of it about 3 chapters in. (The New Contented Little Baby Book, by Gina Ford, just so that you know.) People have said that parents fall into two camps with Ford; they either think she’s the Mother of God or the Sister of Satan. Me personally, I think her strict regiment probably works EXTREMELY well for some children, (Mr. DD’s cousin recommended it to me with unbridled praise- not surprising, as she got her first son to sleep through at 6 weeks and will be using the same regimen with her newest one.) but there are probably many MANY more that it DOESN’T work for, leading to feelings of failure on the part of parents. (Ford seems to feel that if it doesn’t work for your child, you’re obviously not doing it right.) Ford has a few good points that I’ve taken to heart, but the truth is, I just don’t like her personally that much. (Using your lawyers to threaten the shut down a useful mothering forum because someone on it said something mean about you is a little childish, in my opinion. Not sure someone like that has the authority to tell me how to wipe my own ass, let alone raise a child)

The other two bits of lit are the standard What To Expect in the First Year and What to Expect When You’re Breastfeeding…And What if you Can’t? Both seem reasonable tomes of parenting knowledge that we should probably have lying around for those three o’clock in the morning questions like,

“My child is levitating above her crib, there appears to be ectoplasm dripping down the walls, a high pitched wailing and the smell of sulphur. Is this normal?”

(To which the answer would probably be, “It’s nothing to worry about. 1 in 4 children experiences demonic possession in their first year.”)

So here I sit, feeling the Prawn becoming increasingly pissed off at his or her confinement. Digging heels into my ribs. Bashing head against all and sundry privates. Just generally asking his or herself, “Hey, didn’t this place used to be more like a three bedroom cottage rather than a bedsit? WTF?”

Hopefully this frustration will manifest itself into something useful sooner rather than later.