So, it seems I might have an April Fool's baby. Know who else was born on the 1st of April? Susan Boyle! AND: Haydn! AM I GROWING A MUSICAL GENIUS??????? Signs point to yes!
Talking to the midwife was like taking a short holiday away from my life. What am I doing here? Is this about me? I was nodding and smiling and acting like I knew what the heck was going on, but really I was thinking stuff like, Will I ever be talking to this lady whilst she's arm-deep in my hoo-haa? What is my face doing right now? Am I doing the right face? Do I seem completely together about this, or is she thinking I'm not really listening to her? Wait, what did she just say? SHIT, I don't even know, okay, be cool, smile, nod, you're cool, you're cool, you're cool. Look at Angry Busker. See? He looks like he doesn't know where his body is either. We're both out of it; we are out of this together.
But anyway we got through it, I answered all the questions and had my bloods done and got weighed and blabbity bloo (my weight surprised me, pleasantly, for reasons I'll write about in another post), and then Midwife thrusted a massive wipe-clean envelope into my arms full of bumpf and information booklets (no cameo appearance for Marge Simpson's 'So You've Ruined Your Life' leaflet) and vouchers(???? no one ever tells you you're going to get (almost) FREE STUFF!!!!) and forms, forms, forms and then about three more forms.
I love filling in forms.
Not even kidding. I am warm for ALL forms.
It did kind of annoy me, though, that all these leaflets and crap were already kind of mumsy and cute, like a special section of Marie Claire or something. It made me feel like I had to make my bedroom smell nice. Do I have to do that? Because I know having a room like a crack den is not ideal for an expectant mother, let alone a newborn baby, and sure I'm going to CLEAN it, but there are still going to be clothes puffing out of my drawers and lines of cinnamon on the windowsill to keep ants away, and dubious stains on the walls, and just STUFF everywhere, I guarantee it, and I also guarantee? That it's not going to smell like a girl. It's probably going to smell eeeeeeeeeever so slightly of armpits. Personally I think the baby will be able to cope, but I do feel a bit self-conscious about the strange no-nonsense bustly women who might one day bear witness to my slovenliness.
Anyway. I've got form porn to indulge in. 8 weeks (and one day?) today!
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