37 weeks

37 weeks brought with it some interesting curve balls. Firstly, there was the spontaneous vomiting on Wednesday night. Thankfully, the 24hr gastro number didn’t trigger labour as any bout of such can apparently do.

I am also measuring 39cm. As one of my trusty midwives said, ‘you feed ’em well’. Indeed.

As Felix was 9pd8 (4.3kg), if I had been more entreprenurially financially minded I would have had a betting ring going to see if this time round we could crack the 4.5kg mark. I should take this opportunity to dispell the size/pain ratio rumours as well. Oscar was 4pd4 (1.9kg) and the pain of pushing both the blighters out was commesurate.

This one still gets a good internal drum solo up and running as well. The kicks to the bladder are particularly enjoyable and make me praise the invention of maternity surfboards each and every day.
Felix asked me the other day why I was wearing nappies and as I tried to explain it in as simplistic terms possible, Chef wandered by singing ‘Tena Lady’. The subsequent line of questioning from the FlixaBoy has only been matched by tonights probing as to what a hicky is, after I noticed a mark on his neck and Chef asked him if he had a hicky. I’m not kidding.

I now have to fully wake up to roll over and get so many tightenings it bores even me. Bores as in there ain’t much joy in having your stomach pull so tight you can’t really draw breath. Still, I am increasing excited as to whether its a boy or a girl, and am now officially counting down the days of work I have left. Funny how the third time around, all of that guilt I used to have about sleeping during the day with the other two has fled the building. I can see it now. Drop boys at school, come home, go.back.to.bed. If there is an upside to the consistent breeding Chef and I seem committed to, its having a decent enough age gap between the offspring that at least the others are out of the house a few days of the week at that place they call school.

Can everyone please bookmark this entry so when I bitch and moan about how tired I am, how no-one helps me, how I get home and do exercise and cleaning, as I’m so cheap I don’t want to have to buy a whole new wardrobe when I go back to work in 18 weeks and will even voluntarily undertake physical activity to do so, you can fling this back in my face and tell me to go back to bed.

Oh, and my belly-button popped out today. Does that mean its cooked?