Life was so much more predictable when I wasn't driving yet.
Granted, I had to drag hapless Ultimate Other Half with me either I needed to get a PPS number or bikini wax. But it was his own fault for not protesting more and only making very subtle remarks in lines "when will you learn to drive" once in couple of months or so.
Perhaps he was slightly put off by me barking "Never!" or giving long epic lectures about how cars are stronger than me, scary, unpredictable and you can't NEGOTIATE with them.
Or I just patted his hand lovingly and assured him that he's a brilliant driver and I have every confidence that he can get me wherever we going safely. Which he did.
He's driving skills faltered only once when he reversed forcefully into a lamp post in front of maternity hospital.
Who puts lamp posts in the middle of a parking lot anyway?
Anyway, we always got where we wanted to go in reasonable time and in one piece.
This Sunday I took Sir Sprout to a indoor play center in a nearby little town. After spending couple of hours propping him up to all kinds of attractions so he could slide down happily squealing (as a result I've been handicapped for 2 days, he's 15kg, have I mentioned that?) I decided to do the proper Mommy thing and have lunch in nearby restaurant.
About 40 minutes later Sir Sprout was stuffed with toasted sandwich and chicken from my salad. So we headed towards home.
Now, did I mention I go to work to that town? Five days a week.
Thus you would presume I'd have learned my way back home by now.
So how the hell did I end up in a village about 20km from the town IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION???
The fact that I just shrugged, turned the car around and drove home, shows how unsurprised I was. Sir Sprout didn't notice a thing. He was snoring in his seat.
Clearly there's only one answer to my problem. A personal chauffeur. All we need now, is to win a lottery.
Before I'll go to take Sir Sprout to the creche one of these mornings and will next be spotted someplace in Southern Spain, a bit puzzled since I still haven't come across local Supervalu.
Morning, not a particularly early one.
Grumpy Foreigner has spread her considerable bulk all over the bed, leaving a quaint wee corner for The Ultimate Other Half to balance on. She is in very whingy mood.
"Sir Sprout has been whacking me the whole morning," she complains.
"And kicking," adds The Ultimate Other Half helpfully.
"Exactly. I think he doesn't like me," states Foreigner gloomily.
The Ultimate Other Half can see things going downhill rapidly and dives in for a save:
"No, that's because he LOVES you!"
"So THAT'S how you're supposed to express your love nowadays," snorts Foreigner. Then she pauses to think and bursts into a wail:
"YOU don't love me!!!"
You Are 70% Boyish and 30% Girlish |
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The Ultimate Other Half is staying at home today with still a bit iffy and feverish Sir Sprout.
Nice relaxing day for him, you think naively.
Wrong!
I just got email from him:
"Could be a long day. He likes this:"
I have yet to see the day when everything goes by plan.
But despite my shaky fingers, cranky disposition, car running out of petrol and having to take slightly feverish Sir Sprout with us we made it to the doctor alright.
Didn't take long before I was facing the No-Nonsense-Nurse again. I remembered her from last round. All too well.
So I wasn't as startled as first time couple of years ago when she started to bomb me with questions with all the subtlety and gentleness on Gestapo officer.
I know now she's quite nice really, just terribly abrupt.
"So, give me a letter from your GP!"
I felt blood draining from my head.
"Ehmmm... I forgot it at home," I mumbled.
No-Nonsense-Nurse made a noise which could only be described as "harrumphhhh".
"Where are your blood results?"
"In the letter," I squeaked and attempted to make a feeble stab at her sense of humour and/or tolerance. "Must be the pregnancy brain kicking in."
"Harrrruuummphhhh."
OK. Obviously not working.
"I see. Give me your urine sample."
At this point I almost burst into tears.
"Didn't bring one. I'm really sorry."
"It's fine. I'm getting used to it at this point." Maybe, just MAYBE I spotted a little hint of amused twinkle in her eyes.
After 20 minutes of intensive chat I was so relieved to get out that I almost plummeted down the stairs getting out of her office.
Luckily we didn't have to wait long to see a consultant since Sir Sprout was trying to take (absolutely lovely) waiting room apart.
Not to mention that I was ready to burst after all the water I had dutifully drunk. So much so that one of the first statements during the scan was: "You have done a very good job with a bladder."
Really? Total news to me but hey, you're the expert. Can I just kick you and lunge for loo, please?
Well, long story short - Tummy Bug is not an octopus. All the limbs were counted and correct numbers resulted. Nasal bone was also spotted (a positive sign if you're a bit freaked about chromosomal disorders). And it was one fidgety bouncer in there. Or as the consultant politely put it "Very nice active baby."
I can foresee months of sore ribs already.
Then came the measuring time and shouldn't have really been surprised when the doctor said "Oh, I think we have to bring dates forward."
Yep, Tummy Bug is a whooper. At least so far. And most likely will continue to grow vigorously.
"If you had 9 pound 2 baby before it's unlikely you're gonna have seven pounder the second time around." explained my doctor kindly.
So if I haven't "gone" by due date they will drag me into hospital and stick needles in. With drugs in them. To get me "going". Eeewwwwww.
I guess it's too early to freak about THAT perspective yet. But I will anyway, just to keep busy.
And to take my mind away from other issues to freak about.
Because, truth is, there is no 100% guarantee that Tummy Bug is perfectly healthy & OK. But so far the signs are on a good side. Fingers crossed.
I don't know if I should be feeling happy or proud or faintly disturbed and worried.
Thing is, Sip Sprout has taken an epic step on speech development field. This morning he actually uttered something which (with application of some creative thinking) could qualify as a sentence.
Fever again this morning so this time The Ultimate Other Half volunteered to miss work today. As I was pulling on my boots a very businesslike Sir Sprout hauled his little green PJ-clad bum onto a couch, settled comfortably on the pillows and pulled a blankie onto his knees. 
I stared back with blatant disregard of his obvious intentions.
He then proceeded to point at television and said loud and (fairly) clear:
"Mommy TV peaaze*!"
Mixed feelings here. Very mixed.
But I DID put on CBeebies. After all he made SOME effort.
* peaaze = please. He's still working on that speech lark, give him a break!
My problem is that I research too much.
It probably stems from the need to make an informed decision which, in theory, is not a bad thing at all. Quite opposite, really.
My second problem is that this approach never quite works.
Lets say you need a buggy (or pram or stroller or however are you supposed to call them). Out come all the product review & price comparison websites & parenting message boards. Months of extensive reading, questioning and budget reviews eventually result in a buggy dutifully hunted down from the umpteenth baby store tried.
Half a year and three buggies later you come to the sad conclusion that you cannot really make genuinely informed decision without experience and exact assessment of your needs.
And yes, example ( a very expensive one) is taken from life. My life, unfortunately. The thought of needing a double buggy in near future makes my hands shake and raises bitter regrets that I don't drink any more.
But there can be much more serious drawbacks than having to flog off piles of buggies to finally find the right one. Things are easy. They're replaceable.
It's entirely a different story when you (after quite unpoetical act of peeing on a stick) are faced with two bright purple lines. Meaning - yeah, woman, here we go again!
Without much delay you plunge into murky depths of internet only to surface with handful of totally unwelcome facts like:
A chance of Down Syndrome when getting pregnant in your age - 1 in 289
A chance of any other chromosomal disorder - 1 in 156
Heightened chance of diabetes and all kinds of other lovely complications including abruption of placenta and pathologic condition of fetus
Increased risk of miscarriage
I guess probability of complicated and prolonged delivery isn't even worth mentioning. After all I didn't really get off lightly first time around either.
Maybe I would be better off just not knowing and not worrying? Living my life in blissful ignorance? Taking things as they come?
Too late now anyway.
I just hope I won't loose the plot before tomorrow's scan altogether.
Paraphrasing wise woman Hails: "Tomato juice helps."
