threescore

I do believe the rest of the world are slowly becoming just like us. We are now just numbers in the crowd. Or are we, perhaps, becoming more like everyone else?

At the tip yesterday we had to weave through the 2:30 crowds to empty another car-load of cardboard and polystyrene. Why didn’t we think to go when England were playing football? The roads are always lovely and quiet then. Silly us. I bet they don’t make these mistakes in Estonia.

Then we ordered a takeaway while we did evening DIY, unaware that England were playing rugby. Longer waiting times, malheureusement. Not good if your stomach is protesting about the floor tiling and you could have ordered earlier. Oops. Two-nil to the ‘could have seen that coming’ party.

Today we went to a Nearly New Sale. To be fair, we have discovered that most of the world are also expecting children, so we expected crowds. We arrived 25 minutes early to a queue which snaked around the school. When we got in we found that they weren’t offering cots, which is what we had gone for. And most of the items were Nearly Old. I realised that I prefer wooden toys (and Lego and Fischer Price) to second-hand plastic things that make noises. Quite a large proportion of the items for sale were plastic, and make noises. Some things were quite large, but not as large as cots. Some things in front of us in the long queue to check out were large, but this probably helped the queue move faster. The queue was large, and made noises, rather like standing in an orchestra of infants. I felt quite small.

We also realised that it may have been useful to find out whether Peanut is a boy or a girl, so we could have bought more clothes. Newborns don’t need many clothes. I’ve been counting magpies, but the results are inconclusive.

If a week is a long time in rich creamy politics, consider how long 24 days is to a semi-skimmed mother-to-be.

Well Gordon, you may have suffered from some kind of election dysfunction this week, but spare a thought for us poor mothers-to-be. Take my friend Clare, who last Monday was expecting to give birth to her son. It was a long week that followed, and we are awaiting the news of his birth still. The little boy will be born with a condition known as achondroplasia, a type of dwarfism. Clare and Andy have a blog which chronicles their journey so far. The couple are a remarkable testament to their faith and I cannot imagine people better suited to help this little boy and nurture him well.

Another friend, from ante-natal class, went into premature labour a week ago. Two months early. With more miracle science the hospital were able to slow things down, but it has been a tense week for them too.

I have hardly had a rough time in comparison, although a trip to the maternity physio department this week taught me that one of my legs is too short (only in relation to the other, understand). And doubts that I can sleep on my left side, as advised by my midwife, has led to me sleeping on my husband’s side of the bed. Left is the new right. Great - as long as he remembers to get in the new right side. Mostly he has been successful in this regard.

This weekend has involved some considerable progress in the building work at home, which has been encouraging and exhausting all at once. I constantly lose track of which appliances or services I have available, and how much milk there ought to be in the house.

‘I haven’t spent much on buying things for the baby yet’, I said to mum and dad yesterday.

‘You will!’ dad replied.

He’s right. Does he have the monopoly on being right?

Even when I needed to moan at their cat and offload a number of trivial hormonal matters to him, he could see the positive, educational side. If something goes wrong, according to dad’s philosophy, it is a useful learning experience.

This is what I missed in the months following his heart attack. I am so grateful to have that cheerful, ‘let’s see the bright side’ dad back. It is hard to believe that it is almost a year ago. Dad has mentioned that it happened last October, but I didn’t need reminding. The first week of October is my favourite week of the year. It reminds me of summer and winter all at once. Of the cornflake frenzy of leaves and the milk-bottle chill that wakes you up as you step outside. Of what it means to be cosy.

Yesterday mum and I intended to visit a quilting exhibition at Sutton Hoo. However, it was closed, so we went to Woodbridge instead. We had a lovely time and I bought a taggie, which was an exciting purchase and makes me feel slightly more posh than I am prepared to admit.

Today, a friend who is off work long-term ill and I went to buy the necessary maternal kit needed for The Hospital Bag. Very exciting, in a disposable knicker and breast pad kind of way, making me feel slightly more normal than others may be prepared to admit.

On Saturday my husband and I bought the car seat. This was exciting, as it is not often that a shop assistant has to help you fit something outside of the shop. She did not make it look easy, which was reassuring. It wasn’t, which was also reassuring.

Earlier I visited my midwife, who I hadn’t actually seen for 8 weeks. She told me she was retiring on 12th October, after 40 years. This was not reassuring.

However, the baby is the right way round now and facing correctly, which is.

I felt like spending more on the baby, to celebrate.

Dad was right.

Today I learned how to fold a terry nappy, how to make Lancashire Hotpot with a microwave and how to excavate Anglo-Saxon burial mounds. In that order.

I wanted to do pottery.

I learned about nappies on the ante-natal course we are on. Most of the fathers have stopped coming, and most of the mothers now chat as much as we are allowed to, flinging inhibition to the nappy pail of pre-motherhood. I also learned what a TENS machine feels like (I have a lower pain threshold than my husband) and how to breathe (something I feel I should have learned thirty years ago).

At home I prepared my first microwaved Lancashire Hotpot because:

a) somebody had to;

b) I found some in the fridge; and

c) I had to rush out.

After this I waddled down to the local college to begin a new phase of my life: Evening Classes. I wanted to do something which got me out of the house regularly. I wanted academic stimulation to offset the umbilical drip of my cerebellum babywards. I wanted to do pottery.

But they were offering ‘Sutton Hoo and Anglo-Saxon Suffolk’ for 5 weeks only, which places it neatly ahead of our due date and is unlikely to involve icy walks at 9pm in mid-winter. So I applied for that. It turns out that there is no test (shame), no pre-requisite and no need to learn a language. I held in my amusement as we watched a video documentary from 1985. It took me back to primary school TV lessons (both of them) and Open University programmes with funny glasses and Received Pronounciation. Most of the document’ry was footage from an earlier progremme from the naneteen sixtiss. Almost oll the cheps wear fratefully well-spoken and oll thet, but the rale heroes were loc’l lads hoo jus’ dug up th’olwd boot at Sutton ‘Oo, inckloodin the gardna and a loc’l buwy archologist. Moost intertainin’.

Pottery’ll have to wait until January.

Hope you have a lovely birthday, dad. No longer threescore, but I’m not altering the blog!

Ok, I left it a day late. But that’s pretty good for me at the moment. I have decided Peanut has hijacked my brain. I bought a junior 2×2x2 Rubik’s cube to increase my mental powers. It has served to remind me that solutions can be bought and that I do not have much patience. Maybe I should have bought a 1×1x1 cube. Does such a thing exist?

My sister has just arrived [pause while I find pencils, discuss elephants in custard, sharpen pencils], in order to help decorate the baby’s room. Very exciting. Commisioned work specially for our little one!

A lot is happening at the moment. Not much of it is blogged, which is a shame. The builders have left, but there are several weeks to go before we can move in to the new kitchen space. We realised that preparing for the baby was a higher priority, inevitably slowing things in the kitchen. The plumber let us down so we did much of that with the help of my husband’s father. The worktop is slightly too shallow for the units, so we have to solve that as well. At least we have running water and a dishwasher working! I’m hoping that the washing machine will work soon too…

We have been attending ante-natal classes, with all sorts of topics and information being learnt and forgotten again. The others in the group are lovely and we seem to laugh a lot. I discovered that I may have a pelvic problem, so am in contact with the hospital about seeing a maternity physiotherapist. It is a pain in the backside, but at least our local hospital has the right kind of care.

At the weekend we met up with friends of mine from university, for some general fun in London. I particularly enjoyed spending one evening at the Globe theatre with my husband, seeing ‘The Merchant of Venice’, just after our fourth wedding anniversary.

My dad had told me that the special thing about this play is that it is the only production he has ever officially acted in. He asked me to look out for the part he had played. I was so involved in the show that I hardly remembered to look, but it was too hard to guess. He told me when I spoke to him yesterday that he had been the Prince of Aragon. The character chooses the wrong casket (silver) when seeking Portia’s hand. The inscription on that casket reads “who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves”.

Well, I hope dad got as much as he deserved for his birthday. I felt silly just buying him the cycle bell he asked for, so I got him a joke book as well. Just don’t try doing both at the same time, or you’ll get exactly what you deserve!

On Friday my husband took the day off and we went and bought our new kitchen from Ikea.

Such a simple statement. The reality was more involved. Building progress determined that Friday was the day to go and collect the kitchen we had designed, redesigned and taken several previous visits to Ikea to prepare for.

We woke minutes before the plasterer arrived, and then had to order a kitchen sink before setting off, so that it would be ready for the joiner next week. It couldn’t have been ordered before as the plumber had a say in the size of the sink unit. As a washing machine and (potentially also) a dishwasher were due to be delivered in the morning, dad was called in to house-sit, as the builder has been erratically present recently, owing to a bad tooth. We showed dad things where important things like milk and recycling bins live in our make-shift kitchen and explained waht to do should various appliances arrive (or not). He had a large book to read about Churchill and a chance of picking up a computer later in the day.

As I am not allowed to carry things heavier than a baby, my mum was also called in to share the Ikea experience. We had booked to hire a big white van from the wrong end of town (via the tiling shop we decided not to go with, who wanted their brochures back) and drive to Ikea and back as early as we reasonably could. In the process she discovered that the slightly incorrect address on her driving licence might cost her £1500 if the DVLA ever realise. Mum is a good driver and took us all the way there, while I pretended not to be hungry.

We arrived in time to eat a packed lunch by the outdoor play area and headed in hoping to meet with the kind of nice person you might expect to be working in the Ikea kitchen department over a normal lunch hour. Which is what we got. Christina was courteous, thoughtful, competent, professional and even praised us up for our preparation and understanding. She uploaded our final kitchen design, ordered the parts which weren’t available in store (with free delivery) and came to check as we were looking for them whether we could find everything. It turned out she was the duty manager. The fridge, as well as 90% of the parts were in stock, and I counted them off as my husband and my mum loaded them on to four trolleys. Not all the bar codes could face the right way, but it didn’t matter.

We had fun queuing with four trolleys and a fridge, and didn’t get too many looks from people. At one point we had to detour up to the kitchen department again, but I forget why. After loading up and a stop for a 50p hot dog and chips, we set off.

Friday rush hour traffic is never great fun on the M25, but we hit a queue which was over 8 car games long, and stretched for an hour and a half to reach the A14. I spied some remarkable things on the way, some of which the others guessed. Most drivers were very good about queuing and did not push in at the end, but the driving part was not easy. My husband was very good about not losing his cool and did a long stint before admitting it was worth swapping over so mum could do the rest.

My mum had to be home early in order to have a quick meal and get out for a concert rehearsal - and be ready to pick up my sister from 30 miles away. The delays meant that we had to take her straight back home and call in a favour from a work colleague of my husband’s, so as to unload the van.

In the end mum did end up driving to collect my sister from a cold station late at night, but it meant that we were able to meet her the next day in town. She has hardly been around since she returned to the UK, as she got a three week job working on a Churchill production. I am still hoping she will get time to help us paint the baby room before it arrives!

Tonight my brother and sister-in-law are popping over to give us some home-cooked food. It is good timing, and may be their way of thanking us, as my husband and his dad installed our old dishwasher in their kitchen for them. I have to say, the microwave meals in Sainsburys can be good, but I am pining for real food again.

This is the fifth week of the builders, and we may not have use of the new kitchen for a week or two. But at the weekend the in-laws are over again to help install units, tile floors or walls and paint. In whichever order is most appropriate.

I don’t know what I’d do if all these people weren’t in my life, helping out and carrying us through. At times I wish I could do more lifting and DIY, but there seems to be a fair bit of that going on in my body at the moment. Which is why I think people are fantastic right now.

As part of my preparation for birth, I’ve been finding out about transactional analysis. Although I don’t want to subscribe wholesale to theories without testing them and reading up first, I’ve already found it quite helpful in understanding various relationships and putting things into context.

I realise that I sometimes treat other people like children, and this may be my maternal instincts. This is ok when I am dealing with children (e.g. at work) but it’s not fair on others when a more adult relationship is necessary. I’m working on this. I also sometimes expect to be treated like a child, and have recently learnt, along with my parents, how to converse well as adults, while maintaining the parent-child role that will always be there. They are particularly good at helping out while we have builders round and my pregnancy raises extra needs.

But sometimes I am treated like a child against my will by people, and that hurts. It’s not deliberate, but some people may be reluctant for me to be an adult, and sometimes I do not have what it takes to question that. I hate upsetting the balance.

In many ways, the conflicting advice I receive from all sources about parenting are welcome; I want lots of advice so that I can sift out the most appropriate for us. I often feel like I should please everyone, but that is just not possible.

So I want to break free from always conforming. I don’t want to be treated like a child. Soon I will be a mother, and I will make decisions, along with my husband. Some will be based on reason or experience of others. Some will be based on convenience and affordability. Some will be based on long-standing personal preference or taste. But I am learning that it is ok for me to want things done my way, and to accept the consequences. I am not a child.

Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s getting up early to see my in-laws off and the builders in. Maybe it’s the beginning of ‘official’ maternity leave. Maybe it’s the dust from the insulation board. Maybe it’s the constant worry that I’ve forgotten something important. Maybe too much is happening and my brain needs to shut down for a little while. It keeps doing this while I am awake, in any case.

Will I let myself sleep? I’m not sure. I might have forgotten something.

One benefit of having a squashed stomach in pregnancy is the need to eat smaller, more frequent meals. At sensible times. I feel much more in touch with my body. Even though I need a ridiculous number of pillows in bed and have to stop to breathe properly every once in a while. I do like eating.

I am also keeping an eye out for things that make me laugh little and often. These things are like Gaviscon for the soul. For example, my class wrote some lovely things in their coursework on data. I just marked the following sentences (sic):

• “People with brown hair have much more evenly spread eyes”
• “The limitations to my work is that there might be rouge data”
• And, by a blonde girl: “Hypothesis: Blonde haired people have a lower IQ. I think this because some people say that people with blonde hair are less intelligancet than brunettes”.

Dad goes on a lot of walks these days. This is great for his heart and fitness, but while I am pregnant I am reminded of those days when I could never keep up with him, when my legs were too short and my curiosity had not been awakened enough.

He says that he often sees dogs with their owners out on walks, and they often give him funny looks. The dogs, I mean.

‘Why,’ they quiz him, ‘would you go out on a nice walk without a dog? What is the point of that?’

Maybe there is no dog etiquette for meeting lone walkers. Are you allowed to smell? Should you stare? Is it wrong to bark?

We got talking about dogs on a walk on Sunday afternoon. Maybe he should get one, so that the dogs he meets don’t stare. Dad is very aware of nature and changes in the wildlife on his walks, so it is no surprise that he can read a dog’s face. For example, the birds have gone past the season of singing, now that pairing off and rearing young have happened for the year. Now they are just putting on weight for winter. But other senses are awakened in those daily walks: the exploding colours of berries and hanging webs.

It got me thinking - would it be such a bad thing if mum and dad did get a dog? It would be a companion, a walking buddy, a thing to mother and a special treat for grandchildren to visit. They already have a 12-year old cat, Charlie. Charlie would cope.

I love it when dad tells me the story of Smudge and Rex, the cat and dog they had as teenagers. Smudge was around first, so as well as being top-cat was also top-dog in the pecking order. Apparently Rex would allow Smudge to eat the best bits of his dinner (the meat), before he got the biscuits. Dogs are great like that. I wonder what kind of dog would suit mum and dad? Something loyal and not too yappy, I imagine.