I am forty weeks and three days pregnant. This is no longer a pregnancy. This is a hostage situation. A standoff. I am John McClane, my womb is the Nakatomi Plaza and this baby is Hans Gruber. I just hope that when my son does eventually exit this building, he does so in a far less violent fashion.
Of course he was going to be late. He is after all, my flesh and blood and I’ve been late to everything my entire life.
Exams, jobs, my own wedding. Heck, I didn’t try sushi until my early twenties. He’ll probably casually saunter out in a few days, shrug and go “Oh you meant LAST Friday. My bad.”
It’s an odd feeling being past your due date. There’s a feeling of desperation but also trepidation. A watched ovary never boils, Guys.
Any sudden movement in my belly is cross referenced by my brain. With cerebral cortex index cards labelled like ‘contraction or an inside trump?‘
My favourite game at the moment is ‘Have my waters just broke or did I just wee myself a tiny bit?’ Ah, the elegance of the latter stages of gestation. I doubt there will never be a time in my life where I eagerly await wetting myself in a public place with such enthusiasm.
I’m been drinking raspberry tea (Lemsips slightly more palatable cousin), walking, of course. I would eat spicy food but I’m one of those Korma pricks. Y’know, the ones you are slightly embarrassed to go for a curry with. My next port of call is to cover my thighs in snickers bars and McCoy’s crisps to try and lure him out, coz that’s what boys eat isn’t it lads? If he was a girl I’d obviously be lathering my thighs with Muller fruit corner and galaxy bars.
Thank the Lord for the advertising industry or I’d have no idea what to feed my child according to his gender.
People have been telling me to enjoy this peace and quiet while it lasts. I realise they are trying to help but there is no peace and quiet.
There is only the noise of my own thoughts and only so much TLC ‘Say yes to the Dress’ I can watch in a vain attempt to drown out the noise. However I have watched so much of that awful wedding dress programme that now my thoughts come with a bolshy American southern accent and a tendency to veer off into expressions of excitement for lace and tulle.
I’m am starting to worry that if I continue to watch as much daytime television as I am that he is going to come out knowing way too much about antiques, house prices and the opinions of angry middle aged women.
I am very grumpy. I’ve been waddling around for days shouting at my poor husband “well, he’s not listening to me! Have a word with your son!” As if my husband can magically kickstart my labour by just whispering “c’mon mate” to my stomach.
I did have a false alarm a couple of weeks ago where I genuinely thought I was in labour. I was surprised at how calm I was about it.
We were at the Edinburgh Fringe festival, I wasn’t doing a show, although I did toy with the idea of doing a show nine months pregnant just because if he’s anything like his mother this baby would have emerged at the mere sound of applause.
My husband works at the Fringe as an agent and producer so we had to haul all of future son’s belongings up to Edinburgh in case he arrived early.
It was about half one in the morning when I told husband I thought I was in labour but I would do my normal bed time routine, go to sleep and obviously if I woke up we would be in the throes of having a baby. I didn’t wake up. I slept soundly for eight hours whilst unbeknownst to me he was sat awake all night watching my every move and breath. The adorable serial killer.
I woke up the next morning refreshed and turned to see a shell of a man clutching his iPad and repeatedly saying “We have to go home tomorrow. We can’t have a baby at the Edinburgh Fringe festival.”
So we came home. Probably wise. I did worry that if I continued to be up at the Edinburgh Fringe festival that the baby is going to come out knowing way too much about reviews, ticket prices and the opinions of angry middle aged comedians.
I’ve had no more false alarms since we’ve been home. Just the tick tock of waiting for an alarm to go off.
So next time I blog I will hopefully have given birth.
See you on the other side, champs.
Or as I should say…Yippee kai yay Motherfuckers!