Warning: Not to be read by children below 18 or anybody who grosses out easy. There, now don’t say you weren’t warned.
It’s awfully nice, the way you’ve all been so cheering. But let’s face it, there’ll be good days and there’ll be bad. I’ll try not to gloom all over the blog. But I’m making no promises, because on the bad days I’m a selfish pig. But when you read the depressive bits, you can always console yourself with the thought that you’re better off. That, and the knowledge that you aren’t V. Because it’s all his fault, as we know, and I make sure he doesn’t forget it.
The baby and I have a love-hate relationship, really. There are days when we are both convinced we’re the best thing that happened to each other, and I lie in bed fondly patting my tum and watching the kid flooble across it. It shows as a bit of a ripple, which grosses out some people and makes others go, “Oh, how sweeeet!” Of course, and then there are lots of days, which are usually kicked off by the night before when the kid kicks me halfway across the world. I don’t know which is worse, the soreness in my poor tum or needing to rush to the bathroom every ten minutes because the kicks appear to be entirely targeted at my bladder. The mornings after, me and the baby aren’t on speaking terms usually. Hunger is signified by a few swift, cold kicks at appropriate times and I ignore it entirely when it does the flooble thing.
What I find really difficult to forgive is how I’m required to pat about a million times before all is quiet once more, when all V has to do is to reach over and pat a couple of times. I’m the mothership! I demand more respect, not to mention fear! V’s just external entertainment.
We are on a truce at the moment. After two days of hostilities, I’ve stopped playing it depressing U2 songs, and it seems to be kicking a little less.
In the meantime I appear to have scandalized my friends-and-neighbours by offering them F for adoption. I first offered her (him? it?) to my parents. I even offered to throw in V, gratis, as a chauffeur. (I figure if F’s a girl, he would rather be with her anyway.) Then I saw all those cute newborns at EEDF and thought I wouldn’t mind one of my own after all. I mean, they are almost as much fun as dolls! Since then though I’ve had plenty of time (and kicks) to reconsider.
So that’s how it is. I’ll probably grumble a lot, but it’s only for a month more. To answer a question a lot of you have asked, the Caesarean’s planned for a month from now.