stillbloodysingle

Smart, sexy single desperately seeking similar…

Baby’s back in town

Aaaaaand here we are. Back in town.

When we bundled up our lives six months ago and said farewell to our old life, who could have imagined we’d be back so soon, like the proverbial bad penny?

A pair of little and large vagabonds, we spent a couple of months with a dear friend in Spain and then it was back to my hometown to spend precious time with grandma and great-grandma. But my hometown is small, and all my friends have moved on, so when an old employer called me with a job offer I couldn’t refuse … well, I couldn’t refuse. So here we are.

It’s good to be back in the city again; I love having space and people all around me and mummy friends to share a coffee with, but it does feel odd to have come full circle. I see my old friends when I can, but the little guy is no longer as portable as he once was, so I pretty much have a 7pm curfew – not great for my social life.

Of course, I don’t regret my situation for a minute and I’m hugely grateful for the little man’s presence but … the evenings do get quite lonely. I’m fine with my own company but even I get bored of me seven days a week. And sometimes I’m overwhelmed by the feeling that it’s just me. From paying the bills to organising the entertainment, it’s all on my shoulders.

Last week, when the boy and I were both ill, I realised how fragile our little set-up is: without me to hold it all together … well, there’s no one else there.

Help came in the form of two kind friends who delivered groceries and babysat for a while, along with good old grandma who endured a week of baby bodily fluids erupting from all quarters. But most of my friends have busy lives or families (or both) and grandma has plenty on her plate already. So although I can ask for help in emergencies, sometimes I want someone to pamper me just because.

And when I say ‘pamper’ I don’t mean anything spectacular. My ambitions are fairly modest as far as pampering goes. I’m not after massages and candlelight and roses; I’m thinking more in terms of slapping a solid snack in front of me and talking to me while I eat it. Oh, and holding the wee one while I put the bins out. See? Nothing too extravagant at all.

It is (I imagine) the sort of thing that my other half would do for me, if I had one. And of course, I’d be willing to reciprocate.

Though it’s not that I’m after someone to look after me, because I can perfectly well look after myself. But it’d be nice to have someone to share things with, both good and bad; someone to snuggle up with when it’s cold outside or berate me when I’ve forgotten to buy toothpaste for the third time this week.

So, although a lady with a baby is not (I imagine) the world’s greatest catch, I’ve signed up for a dating site. Again.

… and it’s refreshing to know that even though I’ve been out of circulation for a year or so, my niche fan group remains the same: my first profile views are from a 19 year old and a 57 year old. And the two (two!) guys that I found interesting enough to send a message to both completely ignored me.

So where should I go from here? If you can’t get out in the evening to socialise with adults, your friends don’t know any singles and you don’t get any joy with dating sites, what’s left?

Maybe it really is time to dig out the sandwich board and wander the streets professing my singledom. Or perhaps I could raffle myself off as the booby prize in a charity draw. It may sound far-fetched, but if you’ve got any better ideas, just let me know.

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The last post

And so – suddenly – it’s September and the little guy is five months old.

It’s hard to believe that what was once a mewling little bundle is now a bright and inquisitive little boy with a frequent, cheeky smile and an aversion to sleep in all its forms.

Yep, the summer has flown by, and already the autumnal creep has started. In the space of the last ten days we’ve gone from blissful picnics in blazing sunshine to chill, grey days, cold winds and rain … and back again. Winter is on its way. Ugh.

Still, the summer was a good one with lots of fun, sun and (somewhat sedate) adventures, making new mummy mates and catching up with old friends. And the little man proved his mettle as a traveller, clocking up four plane rides to two different countries before his three month birthday.

His first trip saw him discover the joy of lazing in a hammock: being dandled in the dappled sunshine became his favourite way to spend the afternoon. He wasn’t too keen on sandy beaches or the chilly sea, but the hammock became his bosom buddy for the duration of the trip.

For me, though, it was all a bit of a disappointment.

As lovely as it was to see The Semi-suitable Man, and as grateful as I was that he’d made provisions to include the little fella, it soon became apparent that he wasn’t really aware of what it means to holiday with a ten-week-old baby.

Which is fair enough – why would he? – but the little guy and I spent far more time alone than I’d anticipated, mainly because little babies can’t go to the beach at 2pm and mummies who have to get up several times in the night can’t stay up til 5am. Hey ho.

Anyway, Bub seemed to take travelling in his stride, charming his fellow passengers and snoozling gently for the greater part of each flight.

His only faux pas came as the hostess announced our imminent take-off after 25 long minutes refuelling. Lulled into a false sense of security by his patience throughout the delay, I was unprepared for his ill-timed nappy bomb, which sent me scurrying swiftly to the rest room.

Fortunately, his heart-meltingly gummy grin had the unsuspecting passengers oohing and aahing as I cantered up the corridor, battering them with my changing bag.

The ‘Meet the Grandparents’ trip to Spain was altogether more successful. The Baby Daddy was kind and attentive throughout, and although I was a bit alarmed when Bub was snatched from me and paraded round the neighbourhood by a super-keen abuela, I know it was all done with love and enthusiasm.

The little guy coped remarkably well with both the attention and the heat and the Baby Daddy and I got through the whole week with nary a cross word. Yessir, we did. We saved that for ten minutes after landing on home turf, the goodwill bubble disappearing along with the holiday spirit. Hey, and indeed, ho.

And so, with lots of fond memories under its wing, the summer comes to a close. But for us, big changes are afoot: we’re leaving town.

Yep, we’re on the move. Forced into new adventures by the impossible cost of childcare in this city, we’re upping sticks and moving on to pastures new. But far from feeling sad, I’m actually looking forward to the changes coming our way.

I’ve been in this city for over a decade, on and off, and our love affair is well and truly over. I’ve met some fabulous people – as well as a few nutters ; shared good times and bad with an ever-changing crowd from countless different countries; had my heart broken once or twice; and – best of all – gained myself a son.

But if I’m honest, I never really bonded with the city; I always knew I’d be moving on. And, now that I have the little man, that day has arrived.

So, what’s next? Well, first we’re off to Spain for some sunshine and after that … well, we’ll go wherever the tide takes us.

It would have been nice to have a companion by my side, but it seems that single is my destiny and I’d better get used to it. Of the very few men who’ve graced my life in recent times, the only flame still flickering is that of He Who Shall Remain Nameless. And even that’s on the verge of sputtering out.

So it’s time to bundle up all the warm thoughts I hold in his name and set them free on the wind because it’s time for a fresh start. It’s time to sweep away the cobwebs of life and loves past that have been cluttering up my heart.

And besides, I might not have a companion, but I’ve got my trusty little sidekick, and that’s good enough. With him by my side I can swim oceans, climb mountains – yep, even fight lions – because there’s nothing I won’t do to keep him happy and safe.

So I don’t know where we’re going or what we’re going to do, but whatever the future holds, with his sticky little hand in mine, it’s going to be good.

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Business as usual

Can you believe it? The little man is already seven weeks old.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s an insignificant amount of time. Yet in 49 days I’ve seen him change from a tiny foetal creature, squinting and purple with wrinkly skin two sizes too large, to a chubby-cheeked cherub, smooth-skinned, wide-eyed and curious about the world around him. I already struggle to remember a time before his existence.

Of course, life has changed significantly since his birth. My days are now moulded to his wants and needs: everything stops for feeding time and I’ve developed an expert knowledge of pram-friendly coffee shops as well as the nicest nappy-changing spots in town.

Some friends have dropped by the wayside, and we only meet when I make the call. Others have surprised me with their generosity, taking time to call on a regular basis and making activities as baby-friendly as possible.

These friends are the very best, as far as I’m concerned. They understand that I still want their company – in fact, that I need it more than ever – and that if I don’t get in touch it’s only because I got distracted by a nappy change, a doctor’s appointment or an hour or two spent getting the little piglet’s wind up.

To be fair, I understand those friends who aren’t quite so visible nowadays. After all, they signed up for friendship with me, not me and my wee sproglet. And since one of us is prone to howling the house down at a moment’s notice (and we’re now an inseparable twosome) you can’t blame them for cooling the friendship just a little.

And if you don’t have kids, it really is impossible to imagine just how completely your life revolves around your little miracle. I never understood it myself until now.

But despite this realisation, I’d expected things to be harder. Perhaps I’ve just been lucky, perhaps I was just imagining the worst case scenario, or perhaps the worst is yet to come … but the whole single parent thing has been easier than I imagined.

Even things with the Baby Daddy have been easier than I anticipated. Although it is a little odd to spend weekends playing happy families with someone who, until recently, I was exchanging little more than terse emails, we’ve managed to keep things cordial and have occasionally even enjoyed each other’s company.

Don’t get me wrong, there have been moments (usually at 3am) when I’ve considered hurling my boy – or myself – out of the window. But mercifully, those moments have been few and far between and have been massively outweighed by the joy I feel every time I look at his chubby cheeks, his bright, expressive eyes or his wrinkled little brow.

And, perhaps surprisingly, my life hasn’t been completely devoid of delightful men. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to claim any passion and intrigue, He Who Shall Remain Nameless and I have been enjoying each other’s company by long distance call, which has been a real pleasure … and there’s a week in the sunshine with The Semi-suitable Man just round the corner.

In terms of romantic action it’s not much, but it’s enough to keep my little heart happy for now.

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Back to square one…

It’s 7.30am, and I’m cleaning bright yellow poop from the change mat, the table, the (mercifully wooden) floor, the rug – located an impressive 1.5m from the change mat – a selection of newspapers and magazines, and a book.

With impeccable timing, the little man issued his squitterings just moments after I opened his nappy. Of course, I escaped unscathed: I’ve long since learned that when changing a small person’s undercrackers it’s prudent – nay, crucial – to stand to the side. Pity the man who approaches the task head on; on his own trousers be it. And his floor. And his table. And his book.

(I hadn’t rated the book too highly myself, but it must be said that my review was considerably less harsh.)

Anyway, improbable as it may seem, after the rough times my little pud has had lately, I’m more than happy to be undertaking these tender ministrations. In fact, it’s practically a pleasure. Because for 12 days straight, I’ve been changing his nappy in a hospital room.

It was all very sudden. The Baby Daddy was in town as we were scheduled to register the bubba’s birth. When we said goodnight and climbed into bed, the little fella was fine. But after his 2am feed, he wouldn’t settle and was making a strange groaning noise … and I knew something wasn’t right.

Ninety minutes and one call to the midwife later we were back in the car, on our way to get him checked out.

“Back again?” said the nurse in A&E. I nodded grimly.

I was so tired I could barely think, but I quickly understood the doctor’s assessment: my little man had a stomach infection and wouldn’t be going home tonight, or any time soon – he was set for a hospital stay and an extended course of antibiotics.

The doctor inserted a canula into the back of his tiny hand. Once again, I watched with my heart in my mouth as he screamed with rage and fear while the medicine dripped slowly into his bloodstream.

Thank goodness, the antibiotics soon took effect and my little man started looking pink and healthy again, but those canulas kept giving out: by the time we were discharged 12 days later, he’d had 16 replacements and attempted replacements, not to mention a lumbar puncture, which took four attempts to get right. He’d started screaming as soon as the nurses took his arm and I was a nervous wreck.

After that little lot, you can imagine that cleaning poop from a generous area of the living room really is an absolute joy. And now that we’re back home, we can start creating a routine all of our own.

Right from the start I’ve been careful to avoid Slummy Mummy Syndrome, principally to safeguard my own sanity: I’m dressed (almost) every morning before breakfast, and I make sure I find time to blow-dry my hair and put on a minimum of make-up, just to remind myself that I have other roles beyond Chief Nappy Changer and Supplier of Infinite Milky Meals.

Naturally, these efforts are all for my own benefit: a lady with a baby isn’t high on most men’s list of attractive propositions. And so it is that after months of flirtation and sweet words, relations with He Who Shall Remain Nameless have slipped back into the strictly platonic. His company is still a pleasure, of course, but when you’ve tasted someone’s lips and become drunk on the scent of their skin, it’s kind of hard to be satisfied with anything less.

Still, as with everything else, the feeling will pass and I just have to wait for myself to forget, or to be distracted by something new.

Not that I’ll have much time for anything new. At the moment, my little piglet feeds almost constantly, and five precious minutes for myself seems like an impossible dream, never mind the time to meet someone new to crush on. But of course I wouldn’t have it any other way.

From his soft, baby skin to his fluffy newborn hair, this little man has me wrapped around his little finger – and I absolutely love it. My love for him is completely unconditional … surely there isn’t a man on the planet who could compete?

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10th April, 11.26pm

Yep, that’s the magical moment when my little man finally made his way into the world.

Just one day behind schedule, he must have known he was late, because he came whooshing into the world at high speed: I arrived at the hospital around 10pm, and by half past eleven I was cradling my little pud in my arms.

Like all newborns, he was purple, skinny and wrinkled, but to me he was still the most beautiful thing in the world. Utterly besotted, I spent an age drinking in his deliciousness: the tiny, tiny toes, his miniature fingers with their incredibly long nails, his little rosebud mouth and his soft, downy hair.

My mum had made it just in time to hold my hand for the last, intense throes of labour; the Baby Daddy arrived shortly after, and we sat, marvelling at this little being and his tiny perfection.

But my reverie was short-lived. Just three days later, while friends were visiting, my little bundle suddenly became quiet and unresponsive; panic filled my heart and within thirty minutes we were back at the hospital. The little man wasn’t getting the nutrients he needed: he’d lost too much weight and had slumped into a hypoglycemic torpor.

From enjoying our first golden days together, Bub and I were abruptly plunged into a series of tests, checks and nourishing top-up feeds. Watching them put a feeding tube up his tiny little nose almost broke my heart. His little body went rigid as he screamed and turned red and purple with rage and indignation.

I’d chosen the tube over a bottle, as they told me that bottle fed babies may not return to breast milk, with all its health-giving properties and powerful antibodies. Since it’s so much easier to get milk from a bottle, they simply can’t be bothered to battle with the breast once they’d had a taste of the easy life.

But watching his little face racked with pain, I felt like the worst mother in the world. My little man had had three days of being treated like a prince, his every whim catered for, and suddenly he was being poked, prodded and tortured. He must have wondered what on earth he’d done to deserve it.

Big, fat tears rolled down my face and onto his little limbs as I held him still, complicit in his agony.

To give him his due, the Baby Daddy was absolutely brilliant, running errands to collect the bits and pieces we needed for our stay, taking his turn at waking for the nocturnal feeds and nappy changes (even when Bub exacted revenge for his harsh treatment by squittering liquid projectile poo in his direction) and being generally very supportive.

Two days later, we were finally allowed to take a fattened-up Bub home again.

If my little man had had everything he wanted before, he could now count on being thoroughly spoiled – feeding exactly when he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and being smothered with endless cuddles, kisses and snuggles.

Before his arrival, I imagined that a mother’s love for her child was incomparable. But I wasn’t prepared for the feeling that I would literally die to give this tiny human being everything he needs.

Even when he poops just moments after I’ve changed his nappy; even when he vomits all over his freshly washed sleepsuit; even when he wails inconsolably until I surrender my breast, in my eyes, my little cherub can do no wrong.

Precious beyond compare and utterly delectable, he may be just a tiny wee fella, but I think I’ve finally found my ideal man.

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Where is Bub?

I know I shouldn’t be impatient. After all, he’s not even due til tomorrow. But I’d assumed Bub would be in a hurry, just like his mum, and would surely be with us waaaay before time.

The latest midwife visit seemed to confirm my assumptions, when she’d checked his position and smiled, “I’m not sure you’ll make it to 40 weeks!” So naturally, I thought I’d be happily cradling my little bundle by now. But no. I can only attribute his tardiness to the mañana mentality, which I imagine he’s inherited from his (Spanish) dad.

Anyway, I really am trying not to be I am impatient. But I just can’t help it. After nine months of carrying this little soul in my belly, I’m more than ready to meet him.

I want to know what he looks like, how tiny his toes are, how pink and wrinkly his little limbs are; whether he’s happy or cantankerous or just plain sleepy. I want to marvel over his crumpled little face and look for traces of my own reflected in his diminutive features.

In the last two weeks, he’s become truly heavy: turning over in bed has become a logistical challenge and I’ve finally had to resort to propping up the bump with a pillow. Even the XL coat that I bought to replace the original size S is straining at the seams. Spring is (finally) starting to spring and there’s no more ice on the ground in the morning … all of which says to me that my little pud is well and truly cooked and it’s time he put in an appearance.

And yet he remains securely snuggled in my belly, reluctant to leave his cosy little den.

Still, I can’t really complain. Some things are going very smoothly indeed: He Who Shall Remain Nameless has been cheerleading for Bub, and brightening my days with his attentions.

Although there are many factors that preclude this from being The Next Big Romance, it’s a real pleasure to know that someone is thinking of me and cares enough to send me the odd text, just to see how my day is going.

He Who Shall Remain Nameless has also reminded me how much I like hugs and kisses, too. They’d pretty much faded from my memory, being replaced with internal kicks and wriggles – which, it must be said, have their own special charm – but now the luxury of sharing body heat is back on the agenda and I feel like the cat that got the cream.

To be honest, I’m seriously impressed that someone is prepared to take on the task of hugging me. After all, at the moment, I’m not easily huggable. But HWSRN has risen to the task, and even seems to enjoy hugging both me and Bub at the same time.

But still, despite all this happiness, I’m impatient. I want to welcome my son to the world. Every day that I’m still at work, every day that he’s not here, is a torture. All I can do is appeal to his better nature, beg him to make his mind up quickly and start his journey into the world at his earliest convenience.

There are so many things I want to tell him and show him, so many places I want us to go – so many tastes and sights and sounds for him to enjoy. So come on, little fella. Put me out of my misery. Come and join this fabulous and exciting world.

Or in other words … stop hanging around and HURRY UP, BUB!!

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Life’s too good

So, once again, I’ve been pretty quiet of late. Life’s just been so darned busy: work has been full on, social engagements have been coming thick and fast … and of course there’s been the preparation for Bub’s imminent arrival.

With just seven days left until his scheduled appearance, absolutely nothing seems to have slowed down. There have been parties galore – including a quick dash down south for grandma’s 90th – a hectic schedule of coffees with friends, and work is one frantic round of tasks to be finished before I depart. And who knows when that might be?

In fact, I may have more time than I think, since my contract runs til 3 days after my due date. If Bub’s Latino side comes out, it’s entirely reasonable to suppose that he may arrive fashionably late and we can collect the juicy bonus that depends on the contract’s completion. Anyway, until he decides to put in an appearance, life continues pretty much as normal.

One notable exception to my usual routine, however, is the absence of the gym. At 38 weeks pregnant, I finally had to hang up my towel. Bub was just getting too heavy for Body Combat, and although I was planning to pursue more gentle activities for another week or so, a fall from my bike (thanks to an exceptionally clumsy cyclist) exacerbated the ache in my already stretched ribs and called a halt to all exuberant activity. And then my membership ran out.

I had thought I might go swimming for the remainder of my pregnancy, but of course I was forgetting exactly how much my shape has changed: the neat bump of yore has blossomed into a veritable barrel and the gigantaboobs of pregnancy laugh in the face of even my most capacious bikini. So that’s that.

To be honest, though, it’s probably for the best: my little pud is so active that half the time, my belly undulates and bulges in a way that’s potentially alarming to fellow swimmers unacquainted with the little man’s charms.

So, apart from a lack of energetic exercise, things are ticking along as usual. Well, as usual, apart from the fact that I’ve seen the Baby Daddy not once but twice in the last month. Can you believe it?

Now that Bub is almost with us, it’s apparently the right time for us to communicate, so we’re dutifully meeting up to make polite conversation and – for my part at least – wondering how on earth this is all going to play out once the little fella makes his grand entrance. After all, we seem to have scant little in common except a past attraction to one another and a son that’s about to be born any day now.

Still, my days of worrying about the Baby Daddy’s involvement are well and truly over. I’m not really worried what the future holds, as long as Bub is healthy and happy.

And anyway, I’ve had other things on my mind: incredibly, there’s been a modicum of romantic activity to grace the endless grey days of Cupid’s absence.

Big surprise, huh?

Of course, I’m an extremely round pregnant lady, so what counts for me as ‘romantic activity’ may barely register on other folks’ amorous scale, but suffice to say I’ve been enjoying the distinguished attentions of a very charming and attractive gentleman and it’s been a pleasure and a joy.

Naturally, as with all good things, it’s not set to last: he’s due to leave town any day now, and my little sproglet is about to be born, so opportunities for coffee and sweet conversation are going to be rather limited. But that’s not the point.

The point is that He Who Shall Remain Nameless has lifted my spirits and given me faith that there are good guys out there somewhere. And some of them might even be interested in me.

Logically, I’m under no illusions: I’m going to have my hands full for the foreseeable future, with nappies, night feeds, and t-shirts decorated with drool. Amorous activities will surely be far, far from my mind.

But just the thought that someone liked me enough to devote their attention to me – even in my rotund state – has made me a very happy mummy-to-be. And what could be nicer than that?

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Posh PJs and a new perspective

You might be surprised to know that today I’m sporting some very foxy jimjams.

Oh yes, indeed: white bottoms with a slinky purple design, and a purple vest top which unclips in all the right places. (Not for seduction of the opposite sex, silly – for giving Bubba his breakfast).

Yup, I’m now the proud possessor of the ultimate pair of maternity PJs, and guess what? They were a very generous gift from one of my longest-standing mates.

In a life full of fairly pleasant things, this is one of the nicest things that’s happened to me for ages: in fact, I was so pleased and surprised when the parcel arrived that I couldn’t withhold a little sniffle. I think I may even have quavered slightly as I left a thank you on her answer machine. (Yes, I know. I know! I’m pregnant, remember?)

Anyway, I was extremely grateful, and it was very nice to be pampered by my pal – especially since Cupid done me wrong yet again this year.

Yes, as usual, the 14th of February whizzed past with not so much as a text message from the opposite sex, never mind flowers and choccies … or indeed any other token of love, lust or affection. Not unless you count an affectionate heel in the ribs from Bub, that is.

Actually, it’s lucky that I’m so completely enamoured with my little pud, because there’s absolutely nothing cooking on the man front otherwise: the Darkly Intriguing has disappeared off the face of the earth, and The Semi-suitable Man is loved up with a new lady … and whilst I’m naturally very happy for him, it does mean there’s one less name on my list of hopeless crushes.

(Actually, there were never very many names on the list in the first place. I think he may have been the only one. Hmmf.)

I did get a call from The Divine One, telling me how he’s brought me some aphrodisiac sweeties from his travels … though I wasn’t quite sure how to take that. But otherwise, my male interaction level is skimming the ground like a low-flying stone.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a woman who looks more like a watermelon isn’t being flooded with romantic offers, but who doesn’t like a bit of love and affection now and again? Ah well, I can dream!

Anyway, in other news, relations with the Baby Daddy remain cordial. This is something of a blessing given our turbulent history, and something I should strive to maintain at all costs. But it isn’t always easy.

Take ‘the holiday debacle’, for instance.

I mean, I know I’m biased, but for me the biggest event on my calendar is Bub’s arrival. Anything and everything I’m doing is leading up to that. I’d go as far as to say that my schedule is pretty much divided into pre-Bub and post-Bub activities, with a big and excitable star scrawled next to April 9th.

So of course I found it hard to believe that the Baby Daddy is planning his Easter holidays … with his return pencilled in just three days before Bub’s due date.

At first I was outraged. How could he be so careless about our little one’s entry to the world? Isn’t it THE most exciting thing to happen in the world EVER?

And then I finally realised that he’s just not that excited by Bub’s arrival. And as soon as I realised that, I cancelled my appointment to go and talk with him, because I realised there really was nothing to say.

And I immediately felt better.

Of course, with the little one growing in my belly day by day, I can’t wait for the magical moment that I get to meet him. I really can’t wait to see my little bundle, in all his pink and wrinkly newborn glory.

And naturally, since the Baby Daddy doesn’t have the luxury of that experience, he doesn’t share my enthusiasm. He hasn’t had the chance to feel Bub kick and roll and get the hiccups three times a day … especially since he’s not seen us since October.

But hey. Bub will come when he’s ready, whoever’s there to welcome him, and other people’s lack of enthusiasm doesn’t have to dampen my own; I’m determined to keep a positive perspective, no matter what.

Besides, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, megghiu sula ca malaccumpagnata: better alone than in bad company.

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Cupid hangs his head

And so here we are again. It’s almost Valentine’s Day.

Looking back to this time last year, I see that my situation has changed radically in many ways … but my romantic situation remains resolutely static.

Of course, I’ve had one Bub-producing fling, for which I’m naturally grateful, but as far as being loved and adored goes, I can only give Cupid a pitiful D minus and send him to sit in the corner, wearing the dunce’s hat.

Yep, our arrow-slinging comrade has registered another year of romantic failure, but still, my optimism burns bright.

Who knows? Perhaps there’s someone out there who’s thinking of making my day by sending me a small but perfectly formed token of their devotion, wrapped in gaudily-coloured paper and delivered to my door?

Well, I can dream…

To be honest, most of the time I’m not remotely bothered whether I’m single or not. Of course, I’m a fan of kisses and cuddles and all of the rest, but I like myself enough to be happy in my own company. And at the ripe old age that I am, I’m finally brave enough to do (most of) the things I’d like to do, whether I’m accompanied or not. Even the thought of bringing up Bub alone doesn’t really feel like a tragedy … although I will confess to a very small wobbly moment in Mothercare just the other day.

I’d been spooked by the number of ‘Hello mummy’ emails from various hawkers of nipper-related merchandise, all of them jauntily informing me that, “it’s never too soon to prepare your hospital bag!”

Panicked by the idea that Bub might put in an appearance before I’d even had time to pack a toothbrush, I dutifully studied the list of must-haves … and very quickly realised that I’d need to invest in, “a post-birth nightdress, suitable for breastfeeding”.

Of course, I’d procured some nightwear to cover my modesty while delivering my child, but the concept of breastfeeding had completely passed me by. Somehow, the fact that my wardrobe would have to accommodate a whole new set of necklines hadn’t even entered my head.

Just one look at the list, however, convinced me that wearing my nightshirt round my ears whilst giving Bub his breakfast is not a look I’d be keen to attempt – particularly whilst endowed with the gigantaboobs of pregnancy. So off I trotted to Mothercare to check out the hot lingerie for breastfeeding mammas.

Now, it turns out that one doesn’t need to look appealing whilst breastfeeding – not even to oneself. Or at least that’s the conclusion I came to upon encountering the maternity nightdress section. I suppose that in a breastfeeding situation practicality is key, but I had been hoping for something slightly jaunty and uplifting, to keep my spirits aloft when it’s 4am and I’m holding my eyelids open with matchsticks.

So, unimpressed with the relatively dowdy selection, I was thumbing various pieces of fabric when a couple came along, equally intent on choosing appropriate night attire for the impending birth of their little one.

Naturally, I wasn’t really paying them much attention, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the guy hold up a couple of options, then lean over and gently stroke the woman’s bump and smile.

It was such a tender moment of complicit joy that it brought tears to my eyes. And then it crossed my mind that no one would ever stroke my bump like that and I had to leave the shop.

Now, I put this dramatic reaction down to pregnancy hormones, because I refuse to believe that I’m such a soppy old stick. And even if I am, is it really possible to get so emotional over someone else having their bump stroked? I mean – really! Where’s the logic in that?

Anyway, the upshot of all this soppiness is that I still have no bedroom garments suited to breastfeeding, so we’ll be having no surprise appearances from you just yet, Bub, thank you.

And as far as romance is concerned, I know we preggy ladies aren’t the easiest sell, but I’ll be expecting everybody’s favourite cherub to try much harder once Bub is on the scene and I’ve assumed my usual dimensions again. Because the simple fact that I don’t mind being on my own doesn’t mean I’d complain if I weren’t. Everybody likes to be adored … at least a bit every now and then.

So you may be off the hook this year, Cupid, but mark my words: if I don’t see an improvement in your behaviour soon, young man, you’re going to be in serious trouble.

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Chopchop-busybusy-workwork-bangbang…

Crikey, where does the time go? January has flown by in a haze of baby planning, parties and new job integration. I feel as if I’ve barely had a moment to myself and already it’s February.

Now, I know that the move from the flexible, freelance lifestyle to being firmly anchored in an office for most of the daylight hours has had an impact – a fairly sizeable, week-filling sort of an impact – but, if I’m honest, what’s making life completely and utterly hectic is the fact that I’m apparently unable to surrender any of my other activities.

From work I zoom to the gym, or to dance classes, or to dinner with a friend, finally arriving home at eleven o’clock and ready to crash into bed. At the weekend, I cram in the social engagements as if my life depended on it, arranging two or three coffee dates then one or more evening engagements, just in case boredom or solitude should set in.

In the whole of January, there were only three blank days in my diary.

Now, whilst this is all lovely, and I truly appreciate the chance to spend time with my friends, it’s also pretty exhausting. It would surely be exhausting even if I weren’t suffering from the kind of insomnia that sees me get no more than five hours’ kip, three nights a week. As it is, I’m starting to resemble a damp dishcloth.

So why on earth can’t I slow down?

Well, it’s partly because I’m only too aware that once Bub arrives, my social life’s going to be a whole lot leaner than at present. So I’m cramming it in while I can.

And it’s also because spending time alone at home allows me to start fretting about all the Bub-things I’ve yet to do/may forget to do/may never get round to doing.

And lastly, it’s because being home alone occasionally leaves me prey to feeling just a little bit sad and blue.

Whether it’s down to tiredness or hormones or whatever, the beatific bliss that has characterised most of pregnancy occasionally chooses to abandon me – just now and again – reminding me that Bub and I will be facing the world all on our ownsome.

And that’s when I think that if I were happily coupled up with some dashing young gentleman, we’d be moving in to a cosy family home any minute now, instead of contemplating babyhood in an (admittedly very pleasant) shared house. And that if we two were three, there’d be someone to turn to when I’m changing my 97th nappy and Bub is wailing the house down.

(Not that Bub is likely to do anything so uncouth as crying. He’s clearly not going to be that sort of baby…)

Still, when I feel like that, I just have to remind myself that I’m VERY lucky to have Bub, and that we’ll make a great team. And that, 99% of the time, things will be just fine. And that I have my family and friends around me, and that Bub already has a fanclub, even though he’s not even born.

Besides, things with the Baby Daddy are getting better: we managed to talk for almost a whole hour the other day without a cross word. On top of that, I’ve been enjoying some very pleasant coffee time with The Divine One, and Skype contact has been re-established with The Semi-suitable Man, who should be meeting up with us in summer, if all things go according to plan. So things could be far worse.

But best of all, it’s only nine weeks til I meet my little pud. And with the weeks passing like hours, that means he’ll be here in no time at all … and that really is a truly delicious thought.

Although I’ll miss his little head butting into my ribs, and his 4am wriggling and my inside-out belly button, I just can’t wait to welcome my little Bub to the world. Because even though it sometimes isn’t the way I’d want it, it’s still a bloody brilliant world and I can’t wait to show Bub all the fabulous things it has to offer.

So the time can fly, for all I care, and the negative thoughts can just sling their hook: whatever life throws at us, Team Bub is in the building and we’re going to take the world by storm!

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