Diary of a Mad Cow

I have bowed to pressure.

Why, I don’t know. Because, quite frankly, it is downright boring.

Everyone who knows better - ie everyone in the world who is not a medical professional and feels it is their duty to tell me what I want, don’t want, can and can’t do - has been pressuring me to pack, sit back, relax, think of the baby.

Quite frankly, there’s not much to think about re the baby. It’s in my belly. It’s not wandering off anywhere.

So, that thought was over and done with in about 2.7 seconds.

Next, pack. Um, well, the baby stuff is. Coz, really, there was nowhere else to put it. And if I pack my stuff, I’ll be walking about pantsless for the next week or so, so maybe I will just pack closer to the date.

And do a wash a day or so earlier to relieve this mind-numbing boredness!!!

Finally, sit back and relax. Refer to above comment re mind numbing boredness!!!

Attempt to fill time rechecking backed bags and organised piles of things.

Does anyone have any idea how many times you can recheck this stuff before actually wanting to kill yourself?

Am I allowed to do some work now, please?

What a fun day!

I was scheduled to have a photographer come and visit a week and a half ago to take pics of my ever expanding belly. But she got sick. And then went on holidays.

Damn her!

Does she not realise I am pregnant!!!

I need these photos done - coz, deep down, I really am a very sentimental kind of person. That, and I live with a family who will quite happily run my battery down taking photos of under-the-bed dust (Godzilla), moment by moment snaps of Thomas (Monkey Boy) or just not take any photos at all (Grumpy Pants).

I’m sure my kids are gonna grow up thinking they never had a Mummy. I’m never in any photos. Unless I take them myself, which requires a mirror for visits to the Eifel Tower, or really close up shots - taken at arms length - with the option of partial tourist attractions sticking out my head, or partial head shots. Take your pic.

All was saved, however, by the appearance of Kelly! Photographer extraordinnaire and really funny chick!

Who had me doing all kinds of fun stuff and giving me the best laugh I have had in ages! Although not too sure, now, how many of the photos we actually got I want made public! Actually - all of them I think.

Of course, the doorbell went at some stage, when I was dressed in pyjama pants and a lab coat. Was only the postie. Who also happens to by my neighbour, delivering a message to my husband. Attempted to explain current getup by pointing at photographer and saying “Ah, er, um, er, er ..” a lot.

He asked me not to explain any further as he’d really rather not know.

And, inevitably, its when she had me nuded up and wrapped in a sheet in the open door (best light, apparently) that the moving van went past. Slowly.

She even got the kids involved when they came home from school. Then had them paint my belly - hmmmmm. Ah, well, at least they cooperated.

And, hooray! I finally have photos of my belly. Nice photos at that.

Well, actually, I don’t have them yet. Do you think she’ll mind me asking her every 5 minutes if they’re ready yet?

She has kids … surely she’d be used to it!

A brother free day for Godzilla, which can mean complete boredom, complete mischief and everything in between.

Happily playing outside, was he, when I ventured out to hang clothes on the line. He walks towards me, looking decidedly … well, guilty and mischievious are the first two things that come to mind.

So I enquire, “Whatcha doing?”

“Nuffin’”

Hmmm. Mummy Senses begin tingling.

“You sure?”

“Nuffin’”

“Just, you’re looking a bit cheeky.”

“I am cheeky.”

Fair call, can’t argue with that. Off you go then.

Chippie seems to have seriously grown in this last week.

No longer can I bend. I haven’t seen my toes for months, so won’t comment on that. But I do seem to be knocking more things off tables with my belly than ever before.

People are commenting - as, apparently, they must - on how “HUGE” I am. Along the lines of “My god your HUGE!” and other, ever so heartwarming and compassionate comments.

Others, however, are commenting that I’m not big at all. A “neat little package” - whatever the hell that means.

Mind you, whilst I may not be big all over, I have one decent sized belly on me. When I lay on my back, I am suddenly surrounded by Sherpas, and a team of mountaineers, complete with oxygen tanks, hoping to make it to base camp before sundown.

The inability to bend, however, has been my biggest impediment. But only in the shoe tying up department. And the obnoxious older child department, where he consistently asks me to tie his shoes, despite his ability over the last two years to do just that.

And, where he asks me, publicly, to tie his shoe lace up for him, where I declare, yet again, that I am unable to bend to do just that.

“Well,” he intones. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have sex then!”

Hmm, and perhaps you should act your age!

Throat better, but cold now moved into chest.

Great.

Rechecked lists and organised for quick trip to purchase final baby outfits for packing, with Grumpy and kids in tow.

Bad mistake, and one would think I would have learned by now that taking two boys out in public immediately after school pickup is just insane. I blame pregnancy brain. Or perhaps wanton craving for sex at all hours of day and night coupled with anxiety provoking thoughts about induction of early labour resulting in emergency type situation.

Either way, kids went feral running around and wrestling, while Grumpy plucked outfits from racks and threw them in my direction saying “there it is, lets go” and me checking sizes, colours and number or outfits against my lists to ensure that we didn’t result in too many of a particular colour and/or size and a deficit of another.

By the time we got home, and after attempting to negotiate some kind of acceptable public behaviour and failing miserably, I decided fish and chips was the go for dinner.

Whipped it up - yes, home made. Not an anal Mother Nazi thing, just there was no bloody way I was gonna take those two out in public anytime soon.

Finally managed to negotiate some form of suitable conduct, easy when food is involved, and sat down to eat.

Monkey Boy’s favourite pastime. And Godzilla’s least favourite.

We watched as Godzilla picked and Monkey Boy vaccumed up his meal. We watched Monkey Boy, seagull like, eye off his brother remaining (but still being consumed) provisions. We awaited the “can I have some of your chips?”

And we weren’t disappointed.

Godzilla refused. Monkey Boy took note (unusual).

Monkey Boy did a more thorough survey of the feast on his brother’s plate, spying two calamari rings with the crumbed outer removed.

“Can I eat them?” he enquires, ever so politely of his brother.

“Um, yep” came the reply. “I don’ like them.”

Whoosh. The were gone.

“Can I have some chips?”

“NO!” say Godzilla, Grumpy and I.

“Back off and leave him alone,” I advise.

He sits back. He sulks for a bit. His eyes light up. He leans across his brother’s plate again.

“Can I have some chips, because I did eat those calamari rings you that didn’t want for you?”

Having mentioned yesterday’s appointment to several people, I have been innundated with more unwanted advice.

Mostly along the lines of “What do you mean you’re not packed?! Pack now!”

Some of this is out of concern of early labour, the potential consequences of this, and just wanting me to be organised a safe.

Which is lovely.

Some of it is out of disbelief that I, of all people, am not yet packed.

Little do they know that, whilst I may not actually have bags packed, I am incredibly organised. Lists have been compiled, piles of clothes are sorted, categorised and ready to be installed in suitcases.

Special, overly large undies and nice shower gels have been purchased, books selected and, really, had I done my standard, the cot bedding would have been on there 6 months now, and needed removing, re-wahsing and replacing several times, and bags would have been packed, re-packed and re-re-packed on more than several occasions.

I’m sitting around twiddling thumbs (ok, working) being told to sit back, relax and think about the baby.

Like I have nothing else to think about.

Perhaps should just ignore current children and their needs for the time being?

Ignore my wanton craving for sex at all hours of the day and night (damn these pregnancy hormones!) whilst contemplating the fact that sex has been shown to induce labour?

Disregard the anxiety provoking thoughts that the mere act of sex will result in early labour and some kind of emergency situation?

Besides all that, I planned for a Virgo baby! It’s all really going to throw a spanner in the works if it all happens in the next few days.

Sometimes there are more important things to consider. Forgot the “boy or girl” thing, I don’t know that I can deal with a Leo!

Appointment with the obstetrician this morning, possibly my last before the Baby-ectomy.

All going well of course.

The baby has been lying in a “kind of transverse” position for some time (not a standard transverse position - we couldn’t have that sort of normality going on. Although I’m quite happy with everything else being normal going on).

It has turned, however, since the appointment two weeks ago - from it’s head snuggled into by left pelvis, to wedged up under my right ribs.

Ob, having no concerns a fortnight ago with it “turning” in the way we want, ie preferably head down, but he’ll settle for bum down, is now concerned that the date I have chosen is a bit too far away for his liking with baby in current position.

Starts talking about things like waters breaking, hands and feet getting into pelvis, and prolapsed umbilical cords. Wants to do an internal! What?! It’ll be the first I’ve had.

Like my cervix hasn’t been fiddled with enough from the inside, what with hands and feet able to wiggle there way down there and give it a good poking at times. Like when I’m walking up the street, causing the odd “Oooh” to escape my lips whilst I do some weird sort of dancy-hop. It hurts!

Informs me if he is not happy with the current state of my cervix, he’d like me in this afternoon for bubectomy.

I don’t think so! It’s in the diary.

Besides, I have a really sore throat, so not really in the position to be subject to major surgery this afternoon. I don’t have enough baby clothes to take to hospital, and that trip isn’t scheduled till Friday. It’s in the diary!

And, I haven’t washed my fat chick undies - the ones you need post birth - and am not quite packed.

The babysitters aren’t coming till next Thursday!!!

I’m completely organised, damnit!!!!

Cervix in a nice form, so this afternoon, obviously, was not necessary. I have to go back next week for another checkup where he will reassess the scheduled date. Grumpy, lovely man that he is, quietly informed him that messing with my schedule was not really a clever idea, and that it was in the diary. You’re not allowed to mess with my diary!

So much for all the “Oooh, your so lucky. At least you know when its happening. Not like me … blah blah blah”

Now I have everyone on my back about not being packed. Sheesh! Anal Virgo type here - just coz i’m not pack doesn’t mean I’m not organised!

Yesterday, I awoke with a niggly throat, but last night’s efforts set the scene.

Monkey Boy was in the foulest of feral moods - due to extreme fatigue. A week of midnight readings (despite protestations by Grumpy and I) and a full day out on Sunday, followed by another late night reading session, and he was in fine form.

His main issue was that our preventing him from watching TV after telling Grumpy to “SHUT UP” and telling his younger brother he was a little shit was just totally unreasonable and unfathomable. He should be allowed to watch it and we are just nasty parents.

And he is not tired at all!!!!

Grumpy and I were not so miffed at that as how to deal with the reading thing - something we both love to do. And it’s not that easy to put into place disciplinary measures for a kid doing something good!

Argh! “They” never warned us about this.

Star charts to promote good behaviour I get, but to prevent good behaviour, I’m struggling with how to implement a system.

Anyhoo, after several hours of unrelenting tantrum - because obviously he was in the right and there was no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to watch TV, other than the fact that we really, really hate him and that’s why, I made my way to bed. Still tired from the “Fun Family Day” two days ago.

Yesterday wasn’t much better.

And today?

Oh, its just cemented why a ‘day off’ is good in theory, but not necessarily in reality.

My throat, niggly yesterday, has become full blown hurty. My head is stuffed up, I can’t swallow or breath and I want to lie in a coma for a couple of years.

The kids refuse to cooperate with my suggestion of scrambled eggs on toast for dinner. Slightly more complex than my normal suggestion of WeetBix, but the 1 litre of milk we have left is frozen, and if we use that up, it means I’ll have to leave the sanctury of my house - and pyjamas - and get some more.

Grumpy chose an appropriate time to ring and say they need more customers for dinner, but given everyting tastes like blergh at the moment, and flavourless blergh at that, I decline. It would also involve me leaving sanctuary of jarmies. Not an option.

Eventually talk kids into “macaroni napoli”, consisting of me cooking the pasta and warming up a tin of crushed tomato, and helping self to scrambled eggs on toast.

Next time Grumpy talks me out of a day of work and into a day with the family, I think it needs to be held entirely at a day spa, prefereably one with sound proof walls so I can have a proper facial, and not one consisiting of meat pie contents and snot being wiped across my cheek.

The Grumpy One finally talked me into taking a day off.

So we went … to the trains. Just for something different.

I was exhausted, so fell asleep in the car on the way there. Godzilla had had a headache and sore throat, and was in some kind of weird lethargic/hyperactive state (yes, alternating!) Monkey Boy was just excited about going to the trains. For something different.

As my week had been one where “If something is going to go wrong, it will!” I was looking forward to a day where it was unlikely that anything would go wrong. Off we went, deciding exactly where we were going as we were heading wherever it was we were going.

It was cold, but, this time, we came prepared - coats, scarves, additional, chocolate laden snacks. Perfect.

We got the station, discovered the steam train was doing trips today (bonus for the kids) and it was a 73 minute wait until the next one (bugger). Grumpy came up with the fabulous suggestion that we head into town, grab some lunch and head back for the tour.

It took thirty odd minutes to convince the children of this, by which time the almost-hot pies and hot dogs became available so we had one of those instead. Godzilla successfully go the entire contents of his pie, plus a bit more, over the entire outside of his attire. The lady manning the pie stand was generous enough to provide the four of us with 3, 1 ply serviettes. Back to the car to locate wipes for cleaning.

Finish pies with what should have been only 13 minutes to wait - perfect timing in my book - only, with no explanation, the train was an extra 30 minutes coming into the platform. Waiting an additional 30 minutes when the train is actually at the platform, despite boredom factor for me, is not an issue as children are entertained. With boring, stationary train.

(I just can’t see the fun in it!)

With no train, however, and children waiting in anticipation, not only is it not boring, its frigging infuriating. I’m not sure how many times I can explain “I don’t know when it will be here”, and in how many different ways, so that they may be placated. Or at least mildly satisfied.

On the upside, I did learn 496, 283 ways of saying “I don’t know when it will be here” without resorting to the use of other languages or gibberish.

(Although the odd “for fuck’s sake” was muttered).

The train eventually pulls into the station, in a big cloud of steam, them black smoke (hmmm, should we be worried) and on we all hop, locating some seats where I could prevent the rest of the passengers from having any contact with the rest of my family.

“Oooh, this looks like the one on Harry Potter” advises Monkey Boy, where he proceeds to pretend to be a Demontor and freak out his little brother.

Meanwhile, I attempt to sit - as still wracked with fatigue - and fall into a seat, which is, apparently, springless. With my left knee up my right nostril, and my right knee somewhere in the vacinity of my ear (no mean feat, given the size of belly), Grumpy then refuses to assist me in righting myself. Probably because he’s wetting his pants laughing.

(Ha! May the pelvic floor curse, um, curse you for the rest of eternity!)

The kids are given anouther lifetime to play “Dementors” which becomes, according to me, really tiresome after the first 6 hours, and then the train finally departs.

One window refuses to open, and the other to close. Grumpy gets bored, so tells Monkey Boy to look out the window, then sees how far he can get it closed before Monkey Boy gets stuck. Godzilla, meanwhile, continues with the Dementor game while I quietly go insane.

After some time, they got bored (yes, hard to believe) and went for a wander around the train, up and down and into areas they weren’t supposed to go. Monkey Boy took my camera, and took loads of shots of seats, and light fittings and the man at the buffet who told us off for being where we weren’t supposed to be.

Eventually shepherd them back to our ‘cabin’, forget about dodgy seat, end up with feet around ears again, and have to get myself out. Again.

Train eventually gets to destination, I’m forced to run from one end of platform to other as the engine is moved from (now) back to (now) front of train, so I can get artistic photo of engine being coupled to train and, thank goodness, we’re back on track for return journey. Still no chance of a snooze, however.

Return to original departure point, drag kids to car and order Grumpy to find nearest location for bloody good hot chocoalte. Not that I had to order too hard, he was telling us where we were off to whether we liked it or not.

Tempting to leave them outside to stare, yearningly through the window. But too many people gave us dirtly looks, so we invited them in to join us. The people giving us dirty looks, not the kids.

We then made them walk from one end of the main street to the other, then we set off for the drive home, where I eventually got a much needed doze.

Arrive home to me with a headache and sore throat, and two grumpy kids who refused to go to sleep pre-11pm.

Grumpy … well, I’m not even gonna discuss how he was!!

Ah, nothing like a day spent with the family ….

My friends have come to the rescue!

Hooray!

OK, not only have they been fully informed of my dislike of being groped by all and sundry, and having the most inane and stupid questions thrown at me constantly, they have been on the end of many a similar rant.

So, when they turned up on my doorstep this evening, quite unexpected (nice :)) their initial reaction was to grope and ask me the most inane and stupid questions they could.

Luckily, being friends, I could tell them all to “get fucked” and they didn’t take any offence. Then they served up food - delicious food - and helped themselves to wine, and kept groping me and saying annoying things and laughing when I told them to fuck off. Again.

Then … the best bit … they stopped with the groping and enquries and gave me presents!

What I love best about friends, is that they get you stuff you really need. They have no hesitation in handing over a pack of nappies or box of wipes and having no doubts that it makes the best present ever! They’re not worried you will think they are unimaginative, nor do they have to get the latest Osh Kosh outfit that will only be worn once (if ever - because you don’t put grubby kids in good expensive clothes) before they grow out of them to impress you or anyone else.

They get what its like, and what is gonna make your life most easy.

And that is what I love about friends.

(That, and they just laugh at you when you tell them where to go!)