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!!

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?

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.

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.

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!

Chilly chops and heart-warming thoughts

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!! It’s cold!

The thermometer said -8C as I cycled to work this morning, and – believe me – I felt every one of those minus degrees. I thought I was supposed to spend my pregnancy feeling all hot and bothered, but in fact I spend half my life feeling … well, quite chilly, actually.

It doesn’t help that most of my really warm clothes don’t fit me anymore: since Christmas, the bump has been growing day by day and cardigans that once offered a warm haven now stretch pathetically over my beach ball belly and make me look as if I’ve stolen them from my little baby sister.

For his part, Bub has spent two or three days being an absolute hooligan, kicking and punching at all hours of the day and night. He’s getting so strong that sometimes, if I’m not expecting it when he kicks, he manages to boot my arm from its resting place on my belly. I was sitting in a meeting at work the other day and I could actually see the bump twitching and flexing. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

But I think all that wriggling must have finally worn him out: today he’s been quiet as a mouse, with only the occasional movement to let me know he’s still there.

Anyway, with or without his acrobatics, life seems to be clattering along at a rare old pace: I’m so busy I barely have time to sort out the mundane things like car insurance and doctor’s appointments and paying the gas bill. I’ll be glad when the little fella comes so that I can sit down and have a rest.

(Relax. I’m joking. I’m under no illusions about what’s to come…)

Still, I’ve noticed that since I’ve been pregnant, a funny thing has happened: despite being in literally the worse shape of my life – never before have I had the silhouette of Barbamama – I’ve never been less worried about my body.

Maybe it’s the happy hormones, maybe I’m just enjoying being pregnant, but despite my bumpy bod I think I look pretty good. Or, perhaps more accurately, I’ve stopped worrying about whether I look good or not.

Pre-pregnancy, I’d fret over every little bulge, changing my outfit five times and still leaving the house unhappy. Now I have three pairs of trousers to choose from, a limited selection of tops, and the same coat come rain or shine. And you know what? It’s great.

Clothing has stopped being something that defines me, or dictates my mood; it’s shrunk back to being a purely functional covering. And my body has stopped being something to worry about and criticise; it’s become a cosy baby-home for my little pud. And if its shape isn’t going to be winning any awards any time soon, well … so what?

The upside of this is that I feel happier than I have in years. The downside is that I notice my girlfriends’ criticisms of their bodies even more.

Now, on the whole, my girlfriends are a foxy bunch. Sure, none of them is Pamela Anderson, but each of them has a healthy and attractive body … so it seems such a shame that they can’t see it. I listen to these sassy ladies bemoan thunder thighs, chunky calves and buxom bums – all defects that, to my eyes, are non-existent.

Not that I’m judging them for a moment. I know that the very words they’re using to castigate themselves have flown from my own mouth so many times in the past.

And as I ponder this, I wonder if my beatific state of contentment will pass once my little sproglet wails into the world, leaving me prey to baby blues and self-loathing, or whether I’ll no longer be the centre of my own universe and worrying about things as trivial as the girth of my thighs will be a thing of the past.

Right now I don’t have the answer. But I do have a sneaking feeling that once the gorgeous little bundle in my belly makes his way into the world, nothing else will ever seem as important again.

Full-on festivities … and mild miscommunication

Crumbs it’s been a busy Christmas. Get-togethers, fond farewells and joyous reunions littered the start of December, leaving barely a free evening for me and Bub to sit and contemplate life, the universe and everything.

Even if you ignore the countless parties, my Christmas started the weekend before the official festivities, when one of my oldest and dearest girlfriends and I zipped off to Estonia to sample the delights of Tallinn’s Christmas markets.

Small but perfectly formed, Tallinn couldn’t fail to bring out the Christmas in all but the most hardened of Scrooges: from the picture-perfect snow glazing the rooftops to the smell of mulled wine wafting across the frozen marketplace, Tallinn says Christmas with a capital C.

And you can’t help but think of Santa and the North Pole as the glacial wind blows powdery snow into your eyes and hair, sending you scurrying for the nearest candlelit café – a dark and cosy haven offering top quality coffee and cake … or, perhaps, a fortifying bowl of elk soup. Deeeeelicious.

Anyway, maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the excitement, or maybe it was the first-class company, but Tallinn seemed to bring out the lively side of Bub: he barely stopped kicking, punching and rolling all weekend.

It was only mildly inconvenient when he (rather frequently) chose to recline on my ribcage, blocking the airflow to my poor old lungs. Luckily, my mate has the patience of a saint and was, apparently, happy to wait in the freezing cold while I blew like a rhino and attempted to get my breath back.

(Not that I’m complaining. Whether it’s medically accurate or not, in my book a lively baby means a healthy baby and I’m more than grateful for that. He can boot my innards as much as he likes – it’s a sign he’s getting fatter, stronger and ready to face the world.)

Still, laden with Estonian pottery, a selection of cured reindeer meat and a pair of reindeer-patterned legwarmers (an essential purchase), we returned feeling highly content and infinitely more festive than when we’d arrived.

And so I passed a very mellow Christmas with the folks, in which I tried – and, I think, failed miserably – not to reveal the gender of my offspring to my dear old gran. I don’t know why she doesn’t want to know, she just doesn’t. But I think my treating Bub to his very first sleepsuits, adorned with blue and green monsters, may have been a hint that even she couldn’t ignore.

Anyway, despite it not even really qualifying as his first Christmas, the little fella was spoiled to death and now has a whole selection of sleepsuits, nappies and tiny trousers, not to mention several jackets and hats from keen and generous relatives who have shown themselves to be more than handy with a pair of knitting needles.

But all too soon, the holidays are over and it’s back to real life. I’ve just got a new mobile and I’m trying to keep my old number. But it seems that I’ve made a grave error: I should have spotted some sort of tickbox at the time of ordering. But I didn’t. And now the guy on the phone is telling me there’s nothing I can do.

“Unless,” he says, soothingly, “you go instore. They should be able to cancel your contract and start a new one, which will let you keep your old number.”

Well, why on earth didn’t you say so? I’m more than happy to pop instore if it’ll solve the problem. So, off I trot into town where, after a 20 minute wait to be served, I explain my predicament to Mr Mobile Phone.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes, we can sort you out. We just need to cancel the old contract and return your phone to stock. After that, we’ll start the new contract and resell you the old phone. It’s quite straightforward.”

So he cancels my existing contract. Simple. But then he tries to return the phone to stock and there’s a problem. The system is convinced it’s already been returned to stock and won’t let him do it. He tries all sorts of cunning tricks, then cancels everything and starts again. Then he repeats the whole process.

“Ha!” he says. “This is the point where, if I knew you better, I’d tell you that you owed me dinner.”

And he flashes me a cheeky smile.

I smile non-committally as he goes through the whole rigmarole once more before throwing in the towel and calling the IT department. As he waits on hold, he smiles at me.

“It’s not going well!”

“Sorry,” I say, thinking that if I’d only seen the flipping checkbox, we’d both have been spared this troublesome process.

“No problem,” he twinkles. “It could be far worse. I could be sitting here with someone miserable and grumpy instead of someone lovely and smiley like you.”

After a prolonged wait and a technical discussion, the system finally allows itself to be cajoled into accepting the return and it seems like we’re on a roll. Until he tries to re-sell me the phone. Whereupon the computer says no. Again.

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me.

“Hmmm,” he says. “I think this must definitely be worth lunch.”

I raise an eyebrow, and offer a questioning look. I’m six months pregnant and you’re flirting with me? Really?

Finally the IT department works its magic, the phone can be resold and it looks as if the torturous process can finally be completed. I’ve been in the shop for almost an hour and a half.

As he parcels up the assorted documents produced by these shenanigans, Mr Mobile Phone hands me a piece of paper on which I’d written the number I wanted to keep.

“Better take that. You wouldn’t want anyone getting hold of your number now, would you?” he says hopefully.

“No,” I say, smiling. “No, I wouldn’t want that.”

And as he looks very slightly crestfallen, I thank him politely, gather my papers and head out of the door.

Things that go bump in the night

It’s always when I wake up in the early hours of the morning that The Fear strikes.

No matter how ridiculous the topic, or how illogical the thought process, if there’s something bothering me, you can be sure it will wait by my bedside, ready to pounce when my defences are down. Which is usually in the dead of night – or, more precisely, at 5am, the preferred hour of insomniacs everywhere.

After an incredibly hectic weekend, in which Bub had been incredibly wriggly, dishing out kicks left, right and centre, I’d collapsed into bed ready to play our usual little game of pat-and-kick.

The game goes like this: I pat my belly two or three times, and Bub gives a good old kick in that very spot. And sometimes a few kicks more, for good measure. It’s a fun game, and we’ve taken to playing it most nights, at bedtime.

But last night, Bub wasn’t playing. In fact, he was resolutely silent and immobile in a way he hadn’t been since he properly started his kicking campaign just a week ago.

Convinced he was sleeping, I waited patiently, intermittently prodding the bump and waiting for some sort of response. But nothing. After half an hour, I must admit I was starting to worry just a tiny bit, but I pushed any negative thoughts to the back of my mind and drifted off to sleep.

Until 5am.

Lying groggy and defenceless in the darkness, I was a ready victim for The Fear. And The Fear took no time to trap me in its insidious grasp.

As I lay motionless, I became very aware that Bub was equally motionless. So I jiggled a bit. Nothing. Wobbled my belly. Nothing. Patted and poked the bump. Nothing.

Now, my rational mind told me that everyone has a quiet day – including, presumably, the tiny being in my belly. But The Fear was doing its best to convince me that all sorts of things were wrong, from the mildly unnerving to the downright terrible.

Finally, still fretting in the darkness, I did what any rational soul would do: I grabbed my phone and turned to Google for an answer… and almost immediately laughed out loud.

It turns out there are oodles of ladies out there, all desperately poking and prodding their unborn offspring when the poor little mite has the audacity to keep quiet for five minutes.

Instead of enjoying this moment of calm before the storm of sleep deprivation that will doubtless follow junior’s birth, we’re all there, shaking and wobbling and jiggling our bumps, terrified that the little one’s silence is a portent of doom … when in fact the wee soul is kicking our internal organs, or perhaps just felt like having a day off.

It’s at times like this I wish there were someone lying next to me – though I suppose that two people panicking are really no better than one.

And I’d better get used to it, as I imagine things are destined to be quiet in the romance department for quite some time to come … though hearing the dating traumas of some of my girlfriends, perhaps I should consider it a blessing: I could be forced to climb on stage and sing backing vocals to Mustang Sally at a wake, while my date’s family look on, like the old friend I met for coffee last week. It was only the third date. And, it goes without saying, the last.

Yep, despite the continued flattery of the Divine One – which is all very nice, yet clearly destined to be fruitless – things are graveyard quiet on the romance front. But I can’t complain; at least I’m spared the humiliations, the raised hopes and the inevitable disappointments.

And besides, life is good: Bub is back in fine form, and our game of pat-and-kick has resumed once more. To be honest, I always thought I’d want more from the man in my life, but it turns out that someone who kicks when I pat is pretty much all that I need.

Dark times

Oh dear. Relations with the Baby Daddy have reached an all-time low.

We hadn’t spoken at all for a few weeks, then as soon as we did, we argued. And as a symbolic gesture of our mutual disgust, we’ve even unfriended each other on Facebook. Ai!

To be honest, I’m not sure if he did it or I did it. The unfriending, I mean. I know I’d thought it was a good idea, but I wanted to copy our correspondence first, in case it came in useful later on. As soon as I’d done that, I went to unfriend him, and realised we were no longer friends.

Now I can’t remember if I did it straight after our argument, or he did it the morning after. But I suppose, really, it doesn’t matter. It’s enough to know that we just don’t want to be friends.

Although on the one hand I feel dreadfully sorry about it, on the other hand, it’s a relief. Every time we talk – and by “talk” I mean “chat on Facebook”, for such are the limitations of our communication – we end up arguing, which does neither of us any good.

But even in the cold light of morning, and being as objective as possible, this time I really don’t think I’d said anything inflammatory or provocative. All I’d asked him to do was to read about the birth if he wanted to attend, which doesn’t seem to me like an outrageous request.

Of course, instead of just saying yes, he perceived it as a slight on his good nature and got all upset, telling me that women have given birth alone for years and years and nobody died, so why should I be any different, sitting there with a team of experts around me?

To be honest, I’m not remotely worried about the technical side of things. I’m just petrified that he’d come along and be combative or argumentative while I’m trying to squeeze our little sproglet into the world.

So when I said that I would need whoever was with me to be supportive, he got even more upset. Wasn’t he being supportive?

Umm ….

Anyway, he’ll surely have a perspective that conflicts wildly with mine, in which he’s the hero and I’m the villain, and fair enough to him. There are two sides to every story. But it seems our viewpoints are so very far apart, we haven’t a hope of meeting in the middle.

I really try to understand him, to see the situation from his viewpoint … but he’s not one for sharing his feelings. And he’s so angry with me that he can’t even begin to empathise with my position. He sees the very fact that he’s speaking to me as evidence of his unfailing support. So really, we’re aiming for two different things.

And so, as sad as it sounds, I’d really prefer him not to be at the birth.

Although I’d like Bub to know his daddy right from the start, giving birth is, I imagine, not an easy experience at the best of times. If I’ve got someone taking umbrage at everything I say or do, it’s going to make it a whole lot harder.

I need whoever is with me to be on my side 100%, to forgive me if I curse at them in the heat of the moment, to understand that even though thousands of women give birth every day that doesn’t make it easy, and to soothe my furrowed brow when things get difficult.

In short, I need someone who cares about me, not someone who is so angry with me that they find offence in my every word and deed.

And so, as sad as it makes me, I’d also prefer to cut all contact until the baby is born. I just don’t need the hassle. I’ve got enough to worry about: work, money, accommodation…. I don’t need to add the Baby Daddy to that list.

But it is undeniably sad. I’d hoped that even if we weren’t together as a couple, we could work together to give Bubba a good life, with parents that love him dearly, albeit from two different houses.

Now, I don’t doubt the Baby Daddy’s ability to love his son, but I do doubt our ability to have a peaceful friendship around that. Anyway, there’s no point worrying about it right now. The door is always open and I’m sure we’ll find our equilibrium sooner or later.

The good thing is that little Bub is blissfully unaware of all this. Lazing in his amniotic, temperature-controlled world there are no arguments or discomforts (beyond a slightly tight waistband), just a broadening awareness of his newly developed senses and an umbilical cord for a plaything.

Depending on who you listen to, he’s now around 25cm from head to toe (though I find it hard to believe that anything that big is lurking inside my mini-bump) and is fattening up nicely. If he were to be born in just a fortnight’s time, he’d have a 40% chance of survival.

I’m already incredibly proud of him, and I’m looking forward to being one of those insufferable mothers who’s always banging on about her baby’s brilliance. I’m sure he’ll be a little fighter, just like his mum and, despite the circumstances, I’m equally sure his daddy will love him with all his heart.

He might not have the perfect family life, but he’s going to be one lucky little Bub.

A burgeoning bump and divine intervention

I don’t understand this.

Yesterday my trousers fitted, and today they don’t.

Yesterday, I was still quite comfortably sneaking a pair of thermal long johns under my size 12s. But today, when I slip them on, I fear I’m restricting the flow of oxygen to such a point that I’ll be lucky not to end up on the floor before lunchtime.

Of course, my t-shirts have long been upgraded to ‘comfortable fit’ options, thanks to the almost immediate appearance of the gigantaboobs of pregnancy, but I’d been clinging to the thought that – even at five months pregnant – I was still slinky-hipped enough to wear my own jeans. It seems, however, that my transformation from human to beach ball has begun.

The next day everything’s back to normal. How confusing. Still, I think it may be time to start checking out the maternity section for a pair of pants that will allow me to breathe easily whatever my circumference, and won’t squish Bub just as he’s trying to stretch his tiny little legs.

To be honest, up until now I’ve been quite happy with my diminutive bump. Although I have, on occasion, fretted about its dimensions, on the whole I’ve been grateful to be spared much of the spontaneous tummy-touching that a generous belly seems to attract.

Of course, I don’t mind friends giving Bub an affectionate pat, but when nodding acquaintances start getting in on the act, it can be a bit alarming, especially if the tummy touch is unannounced. My first reaction is to suck my belly in and dive away, but that’s getting a little harder with each month that passes.

The only downside of having a small belly is that I don’t really look very pregnant. Naturally, people who knew me pre-pregnancy can see immediately what’s up, but others just think I ate all the pies – and when your look is more paunchy than pregnant, compliments are few and far between.

Sure, people may tell you that you’re blooming or that pregnancy suits you, but your sexiness rating takes a hard and sustained nosedive. Nobody tells you that you look sexy, mostly because you don’t. (The possible exception to this may be the father of the child you’re carrying, but in my case the less said about that the better.) So imagine my surprise to be on the receiving end of a host of compliments from a dashing young gentleman with the face of an angel and dimples to die for.

Honestly, if I were a few years younger, or he were a few years older, I’d have snapped the Divine One up like an oven-fresh muffin. Tall, dark and exceptionally handsome with a killer smile and – yes, those dimples – this young man is truly gorgeous. He’s also intelligent, erudite and charming. What’s not to like?

But even as I utter the words, “young man” you see the fly in the ointment: at just 25, the Divine One sits on the cusp of the lower of my speciality categories – the under 25s and over 55s.

If I’m honest, I find his attraction to me completely unfathomable; I’m older, wrinklier and rounder … none of which are characteristics a young man tends to look for in his ideal woman. And although he’s endlessly complimentary, I’m still not 100% sure he’s not just having a laugh at my expense.

Still, I’ve decided I’ll take his comments at face value, not least because it makes me feel good. And in the midst of worries about money, accommodation, employment and the Baby Daddy, feeling unreservedly good is a rare commodity to be nurtured and cherished. And even if I find it impossible to see how my increasing circumference qualifies me to be considered attractive, I’m more than happy to accept that someone else does.

Because even if I do say so myself, the fact that I feel like a slightly over-stuffed sausage is absolutely no reason for me to lose my sizzle. So bring on the flattery, Divine One, bring it on…