I dream of Beanie

There is so much that I want to write, so many posts that drift in and out of my head. But often I’ll dismiss an idea for a post because I feel as though I’m singing a song of a million years and a thousand lands. What can I say that hasn’t been said before, by countless other bloggers and writers and women, through tea steam and down crackling phone lines and across cave-warming fires. For every baby that’s borne and born, surely the same words and feelings are played out again and again. What can I add?

But then, I suppose there is something wonderful about the fact that this experience does not tire, despite the fact that it is, after all, how we all got here. For almost every human on the planet (I say almost because I know that having a baby doesn’t bring happiness for every woman, sadly) there was once a mother- and a father- bursting and brimming with happiness and love for them before they even met. So what’s the harm in adding my verse to the song, gushing though it may be (and that is by way of a warning…)?

So here is where I am: 30 weeks pregnant, belly about the size and shape of a pumpkin, starting to waddle ever so slightly, and loving this experience. Honestly, it is wonderful, and I say that as someone who tends to worry and overthink and generally not revel in things for their own sake. I love the feeling of Bean rolling and kicking and poking inside me; I love that I can sometimes feel her, hard and curled up, right against the outside of my belly; I love that she seems to like it when it’s all quiet- my tender bean ; I love it when sometimes she kicks her daddy in the face when he’s talking to her.

A big fool in love, am I. A pair of fools, in fact, are we: G is as gaga as me.  And,  magically, I’m not worried about having this baby or even giving birth to her. (Apart from this morning, that is, when I woke up bent out of shape and aching, having stupidlyy tossed aside my buttress of supportive pillows in the night, feeling whimpery and nervous about being a mother and, I soon realised, just hormonal. It didn’t last too long). I’m fascinated by the changes happening to my body (but maybe not the ones which feel like permanent cystitis. Those changes I can live without). And I still revel in the planning and the painting and the lists.

But though I love being pregnant, I can’t wait to meet our daughter (or indeed- and it could happen- our suprise son). I can’t quite believe that she’s in there, already, and that one day not so very far away, we’ll be scooping up her wrinkly little body and looking into her beady eyes and no doubt thinking she’s the most beautiful creature that ever lived, despite the fact that she’s very likely to look, at first, like a troll. I can’t wait to breathe her in and introduce her to all the people who are looking forward to meeting her, to poke her feet into socks and her hands into mittens and my fingers into her mouth.

Well, I say I can’t wait, but that is not an invitation for the Bean to make an early appearance. I have at least four new levels of delirious excitement to scale before the end of January. I’m happy in my role as bean pod for the next two months. More than happy, in fact.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Designer Baby

Babies are expensive creatures, or so legend has it.  Certainly, a flick through the magazines and catalogues you’re bombarded with once you find yourself with child can leave you hankering after designer highchairs (that look like trendy bar stools) and up-to-the-minute cribs (which look like modern art sculptures), not to mention the posh baby clothes and the matching nursery sets and the sterling silver keepsakes. You could easily spend thousands without even thinking about it.

I like to peruse the pretty pictures and drool a little over the twinkly things. But low and behold, expecting a baby is bringing out my frugal side. We’re finding that actually, preparing for the Bean’s grand entrance isn’t as pricey an endeavour as we’d thought.

This is largely down to the generosity of family and friends.  Grannies and Great-Grannies are knitting feverishly, and aunties and best-friend-aunties  are beavering away on mysterious and exciting craft projects. My uncle and his wife dropped round a haul of useful baby clobber that they no longer need- a bath and a sling and all sorts.  We’re having the moses basket that my Granny slept in as a bean almost 80 years ago (!) and every baby in our family has done since.

I can say honestly that I would take all this over a £10k spree at John Lewis any day, and I find I don’t give a fig about things being new, or styling, or matching.  I know for sure that the Bean doesn’t.

So far, all we’ve actually bought is a pram and some fantastically bargainous/chompable tiny outfits from a nearly new sale, and a handy grant from the government which all mothers-to-be are entitled to (congratulations on contributing to the overpopulation of the United Kingdom! Here, have £190!) should take care of the rest.

(Oh and I also bought some Eric Carle prints to frame and put on the wall in the nursery, but they were only £11, and totally adorbs).

Life has chucked us a couple of lemons of late, which makes us all the more pleased that we have such lovely people in our lives to help us make lemonade. And I’m finding that the overwhelming joy and expectation we’re feeling about the eagerly awaited arrival of our baby puts everything in perspective and is making all kinds of things that should always have been obvious perfectly clear.

Pretty things are great. But the most important message I have for the Bean is this: all you need is love, baby.  And we’ve got so much of it, just for you.

Odds and sods

Well, apparently being with child does not excuse you from having to work really bloody hard. Which is to say, that’s where I have been these last few weeks (again! Am sorry! Bad blog monkey!). Phew, it’s been intense. Though I don’t actually have to go out filming these days- which is great, taking into account the darkening, chilling days and wintry rain- I do have to sit in the office with the phone glued to my ear and my fingers typing themselves down to bloody stumps, setting up other people’s filming and trying not to tear my hair from its follicles. Same old stress, same old Sausage Factory.

However, being with child does mean you get banished from the office when swine flu strikes . When it comes to flu season, my office is effectively a huge open plan cesspit housing more than 60 people. We all share equipment- not to mention air- bounce from desk to desk, leave our germy handprints on the kettle, door handles etc. The air is given a good stir by a number of large a/c vents, which allow for the fact that there are no windows which open.  So it was hardly surprising when people started dropping like flies in the last few days, peaking yesterday.  Only one is a confirmed swine; a couple of others seemed pretty ropey (and I’m annoyed with them for coming to work. Swine Flu Matyrs can go straight to Room 101, by decree of me and The Bean); others I’m sure were over-egging their colds or suffering from an acute case of Mondayitis.

“You shouldn’t be here!” yelped one caring colleague with panic in her eyes, and before I knew it I was being bundled homewards by my boss. I felt special for about an hour, until an e-mail came round telling everyone to leave, and work from home until further notice.

So now I get to work in my slippers and stretchy trousers for the foreseeable future. Which is very nice actually. I’ve surprised myself today by getting an awful lot done, and not switching on the gogglebox once. My Facebook uptake has in fact been lower than normal, and I’ve certainly spent less time gossiping- none at all, in fact. I’m wondering if it might perhaps be essential for me to work from home until I start my mat leave in 2 months time….

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In other news, all is well Bean-wise, and not much else is happening in my life, other than growing a new human. She’s very active in there, and there’s nothing so delicious as feeling her kicks and prods, which range from squirmy sensations to full on belly-shakers. It’s also fascinating when she muscles her way to the front of my bump (which is now, to my relief, decidedly A Bump), and we can feel with our fingers little knobbly bits which must either be a head or a bum. Oh, the indignity of being a fetus…

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It’s my sister’s birthday today- the sixth one since she died. She would have been 22, and that’s something I can’t even begin to get my head around. I’ve been feeling OK all day and have decided to go with this feeling, and not succumb to guilt or force myself into a grief-hole. Strange how I never can tell how I’m going to feel on these “special” days- anniversaries, birthdays and so on.  The bottom line is, I wish she was here every day, not just on her birthday.

Navel Gazing

Like all women I know, I’ve always been weight conscious, with varying degrees of success over the years. I’ve never felt happy with my body shape, even when I was verging on underweight a couple of times. Before I was pregnant I truly believed that I would limit my extra calorie intake to the apparent 200 extra calories you need per day (that’s 2 slices of toast, people). I was anxious to stay slim and convinced my usual body-image fretting would not subside.

The first trimester of this pregnancy saw these good (/twisted) intentions fly out of the window. When you’re going to vomit unless you eat something, NOW, and then again two minutes later, and when anything but salt and vinegar crisps smells like the devil’s breath to your crazy pregnant nose… well, you eat the jeffing crisps, don’t you.

During this much more fun, much less insane (goodbye, nausea, I don’t miss you at all!) second trimester, I am still eating more than I normally would- and more than an extra 200 calories a day- but I’m not out of control by any means. The main difference is that I eat without guilt. I eat things I’d normally avoid, like sandwiches- CHEESE ones no less. Party on dudes. I make trips to the bakery especially for a cake. I don’t let myself go hungry, ever.  I’m actually horrified at the thought of applying the usual hunger-is-good ethos while pregnant- it just can’t be good for the baby (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it).

My overriding feeling- and it’s a thrilling one- is of complete freedom from the usual body identity parade.  I can’t be judged on the usual criteria of what is officially attractive. My body is a completely different shape from the acceptable norm. (For god’s sake, my behind- usually the largest part of my body by a long way- now looks positively deflated compared to the various, ballooning lady lumps out front. My bottom, for once, is taking back seat).  Whilst I’m pregnant, I’m out of the Fat Race, and it feels wonderful. I’ve realised that women only get complimented on their figures at two times in their lives: when they look thin, and when they are pregnant.  I’ve been thin at times, but it’s much easier to be pregnant- backache, cytitis, crazy breastfeeding dreams and all. At the moment I love my slightly comical body shape and don’t have a speck of neuroses over whether I look big in a certain outfit or whether my stomach is sticking out when I sit down (I’d be stuffed if I did).

 But I suppose I’m not completely free. The only reason I don’t worry about my shape is because I’m pregnant, so I’m “allowed” to not be thin. It’s the sad truth that once I have given birth (and shovelled down all the foods I’m not allowed to eat while pregannt: smoked salmon, pate, brie…dribble…), I’ll be dieting. Because we’re so trapped in this ridiculous belief- and it is ridiculous, and completely arbitrary, but impossible to rid ourselves off- that thin is best. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we should promote the belief that being hugely fat  looks nice- it’s obviously healthier to be slim and so, yes, a body that is  healthy weight looks more attractive.  I don’t think that’s abitrary. But we don’t simply think a healthy weight is more attractive, do we? We think that thinner you are, the better you look. And despite myself, begrudgingly, I sign up to that lie too. I’m intelligent and liberated, but like most women I can’t make myself believe that looking good is simply a matter of being healthy and fit, never mind if your thighs are a little thunderous or your waist-hip ratio unwaspish.

So I’ve no doubt that I’ll be back at war with my waistline once I’m no longer pregnant. But for now, pass me the birthday cake (a not-so-subtle pointer towards the fact that it’s my birthday tomorrow, yippee!) and let me enjoy the ceasefire.

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In other, less self-obsessed news: all seems to be well with the Bean. She’s kicking quite a bit now, and it’ the best feeling. And, after many moments spent with baited breath and his hands planted across my belly, G finally felt a kick (two kicks!) last night.  In terms of measurements, heartbeat, and overall edibility, the recent scan showed all is well. I love the fact that her thighs are looking like little chubby sausages. (If only I could guarantee that she would always love her own thighs, chubby or not…).

The sad side of it all

Helen was the first person we told about the Bean. The day after I did the pregnancy test, we went to the cemetery. It was warm, and we touched her stone, and we told her that she would have a niece or nephew, weeks before we told anyone else. Sometimes we have a daydream that Helen picked out the Bean for us, that Helen has met her already (for she is a she! More on that later). Silly, maybe, but I don’t care.

These days I find myself overcome with tears for Helen more often than usual.I was expecting to miss her more, of course, when I was pregnant and when we became parents. I knew that it would be a bittersweet time. And it is, but not in the way I was expecting. I thought I would mourn the fact that the baby wouldn’t have her dazzling Auntie in her life, and that Helen wouldn’t get to be that Auntie.

But what hurts more is that I can’t imagine Helen in The Bean’s life, because it feels so, so long since Helen was here. She and the baby feel so far apart. I don’t know who Helen would be now, what she would be doing, or even what she’d be wearing or how she’d do her hair. So I don’t know this 21 year old Auntie Helen.  I only know that dear 16 year old little sister Helen.  The Bean will be born and grow up not  knowing what she’s missing; she won’t have a gap in her life like we do, at least not one that she’s aware of, and for that I am grateful, but also terribly sad. And Helen. She is missing out on meeting her niece, but it’s just one on a list of  a million things she has missed out on, and will miss out on, and I cry for each of those things.

And more often I cry simply for Helen, because I still long for her and I still rail against the unfairness of her life ending before she had a chance to spread her wings.  I just wish she was still here, baby or no baby. I just miss her.

It’s true that I’m skipping over the moon daily thinking about the Bean, and it’s true that this baby will bring sunshine into all of our lives, where Helen’s loss left such darkness. But the darkness of Helen’s absence will still be present.  And the truth is, I want them both. It’s not much to ask for- my child and my sister- and yet it’s more than I can ever have.

A large glass of whine

I have a work friend who shares my unashamed love of a couple of drinks a couple of times a week. Like me, he rarely gets drunks and dislikes the feeling, but like me he loves one or two cold ones and the warm buzz it gives you. But his wife doesn’t approve of drinking. During long work road trips we’d often wax lyrical on the tempting glug-glug-gug of wine sloshing into a glass, the “ksssch” of a beer bottle opening and first fizz of the bubbly brew on the lips. Then I’d thumb my nose at him, because when I finally got home, I’d be doing it for real, whereas he’d have to ask the missus first.

Now it’s the stuff of fantasy for both of us, as I have a benign dictator of my own stopping me from drinking. I haven’t had a bevvie for months. And that’s the first time I’ve been able to say that in more than a decade (yikes).

In truth, it’s no sacrifice. At first, I even enjoyed the novelty of not drinking. It was one of the few material/physical differences which meant I was pregnant. Then, I felt so sick that I couldn’t even be near G if he’d had one pint of beer (and brushed his teeth afterwards), and walking down the booze aisle- any aisle, in fact, with all the vile food and horrible drinks everywhere- of the supermarket, was like an assault course.

Now, though, as I sail my portly vessel through the calmer waters of the second trimester (half way there now!), I’m no longer nauseous and have lots of daily reminders of the fact I’m with child, and man I’d love a glass of wine. I’ve been dreaming of sneaky after-work pints and sharing a bottle with friends. In reality, drink tastes grim- I’ve tried a sip of G’s a couple of times and it’s  like paintstripper to me, thanks to my crazy knocked-up hormone chemistry, I guess. And although many women drink a little while pregnant, I just can’t bring myself do it.  So really, it’s still fine to go without. But I certainly don’t stand by my declarations earlier in the pregnancy that I might just continue my sober existence after the baby is born. Unless I had a health reason to give up alcohol, or I felt it was an issue, the teetotal life is not for me. And I suppose I love the idea of enjoying a drink: the ritual, the social aspect, even the joy of lolling on the sofa with a goblet of red and Four Weddings.

I’d like to think I’ll toast the baby with a cold glass of bubbly from the warmth of the birthing pool, but actually I think I’ll be yearning for a cup of tea instead (oh and bonding with the baby, of course) . But I’m sure, when I am finally reunited with my old pal pinot g whenever that is, it will be a fine day indeed. And that day isn’t so very far away.

After all, breastfeeding mothers can have a glass of wine, can’t they? CAN’T THEY?

Shush. I’m sleeping.

Wow, it’s been a while. Sorry about that. My excuse is that I am spending most of my time being pregnant, and for that, read: sleeping. I keep waiting for the full-of-energy part that I have been promised, but it’ s eluding me so far. I’m like a sleep junkie. I squeeze it in before dinner, I fill weekend afternoons with it, and it calls to me long before the clock strikes 10pm each night.

I have managed to keep up some semblance of normal life. We went to a very elegant wedding this weekend (but left at 10.30) ;  I have been meeting up with friends (but generally during afternoons/early evenings); and of course, much as I’d like to start my maternity leave now, I can’t, so I still have to go to work. Sometimes I consider locking myself in the disabled loo at work and curling up in the corner for a snooze. But that would be gross, and also, not fair to anyone who actually needs to use the loo.

I have also managed to drag my ass to pregnancy yoga, and against all my prejudices, have greatly enjoyed it. I’ve been rather dismissive of yoga in the past, despite the fact that my Dad is a total yogi and is training to be a yoga teacher. It has always smacked of lentil weavery to me. And as a rule, I prefer the type of exercise where you feel you’re going to die (ie Brit Mil Fit). But, having ditched my normal routine once the Bean came on the scene,  I eventually realised that it wasn’t good for me to go from 2 high impact exercise classes a week to leading the lifestyle of a (pregnant, but still) slug.

I confess that I cringed as I walked through my rather bohemian ‘hood with a yoga mat sticking out of a hessian bag, sportswear clinging to my emerging bump. I could have sworn the people drinking outside the wine bars were giving me evils and I wanted to assure them that I was well aware of my status as Walking Cliche, and I wanted to throw custard pies at me too.

But the class itself, once I had got over the feeling that I shouldn’t really be there- it was full of actual pregnant women, not frauds like me! (yep, still feel like that)- and realised that pregnancy is the ideal social crutch for slightly awkward types (dozens of instant conversation-openers at your fingertips!), was ace. Apart from the bit where we had to sit back to back with a partner and exhale like “aaaaaaaaah”.  I just couldn’t be earnest about that.

The next class was this Monday, and I had the most lovely experience. When we were doing the deep breathing exercises, the baby started to dance about vigorously. In the last couple of weeks I’ve felt flutters and pops, especially in the evenings. But this was a full-on hoedown in my belly, complete with a couple of proper, actual kicks (the likes of which I haven’t really felt since, despite my desperate nose-breathing and “aah-ing” and rib-cage-expanding at home, in an attempt to encourage a repeat performance). The excitement, not to mention the party in my paunch, did rather hinder my efforts to achieve deep zen-like calm. But then, the Bean is a little young to understand the concept of “relaxation”, so he/she is forgiven.

Baby likes yoga. Yoga it is then! Then, pudding. Then another nap.

Shallow? Moi?

OK OK, the lack of comments sort of suggests that you would like me to write about something other than pregnancy and babies and the fact that I CAN FEEL HIM/HER MOVING (I think). But… sigh… it’s the biggest (good) thing that’s ever happened to me and it’s on my mind all of the time, so just bear with me.  And I will write about something else soon. The yarden! I will write about the yarden.

But in the mean time…

I think I always had the notion that when I was finally expecting a baby, I would become more serious and deep and stuff. That I would feel deeply engaged with the act of creating a new life. I can be fairly serious and thinky anyway, and I assumed that I would become more so when with child.

But herein lies Pregnancy Surprise #508: I haven’t. If anything, I’ve become more shallow, and sillier.

When I had my first booking appointment with the midwife, she remarked that it was good I would be really big in winter rather than hot and uncomfortable in summer. “I know! I’m going to buy a really fancy maternity winter coat!”, I responded. She looked at me like: “priorities”. But I cannot WAIT to go maternity clothes shopping (confession: I sneaked into Topshop Maternity the other day, and was only mildly horrified at what maternity jeans look like).

When I first saw the little one on a scan (at around 7 weeks, thanks to a rather nailbiting scare which thankfully came to nothing), I didn’t well up or feel suddenly at one with the universe. I laughed. And maybe squeed a little bit. It was just such a gleeful thing: a little bean! In my belly!

I love reading baby books and websites and magazines, and I love wandering dreamily through the aisles of tiny widdle clothes in the shops. I’m a total sucker for the whole baby hullabaloo, and while I’m aware it’s all marketing, and thankfully have managed to restrict myself to ogling adorable sheepskin slings in the pages of magazines rather than spending actual money on them, I feel very happy to wallow in it after waiting for (feels like) ages to be able to.

But most of all, while I am of course aware of the gravity of bringing a new life into the world, etc etc, a big part of me is thinking SQUISHY BABY! CHOMP! I’m sure I will look into my baby’s eyes and see galaxies of wisdom unfolding and all that… but that’s if I’m not too busy cramming his/her whole feet into my mouth and squishing his/her little thigh rolls and blowing raspberries on his/her belly and nibbling his/her cheeks. And putting him/her into plantpots and dressing him/her in hilarious/adorable outfits.

In short, this baby is bringing out my frothy, giddy side, big time. And if you know me well, I’m sure you’ll agree, that’s a good thing.

False Advertising

I do a lot of interwebbing around the subject of pregnancy- finding out whether my baby has finger buds or proper fingers that move, etc. At first the information was slightly disheartening. For so many weeks it seemed to be a little question mark (in more ways than one), with a tail, and no face. The last few weeks, of course, have been packed full of thrilling information. It has all its bits! It’s hiccuping and peeing! It’s basically a tiny tiny little actual baby. Hurrah!

However. The general consensus on information sites seems to be that the second trimester is the “glowy” one. The bit of delicious smug jam in the middle of gnarly discomfort sandwich. Your sickness has disappeared, I read. You feel so much better! You’re full of energy.

I am not glowing. At 15+ weeks in, I have had a UTI for three weeks (tears hair out) which three courses of antibiotics haven’t shifted, I’m plagued by dreadful migraines, and yesterday only lunch remained in my stomach . At least I can complain about it loudly and publicly now, though, instead of greenly mumbling something about “something I ate, probably” at work, before dashing loowards once again.

None of this is bad enough to make me me lose sight of the basic wonderfulness at the heart of all this discomfort. Today I’m off to the midwife, and hoping to hear Bean’s heartbeat (but promising self not to become paralysed with panic if the midwife can’t find it). And at least it’s forced me to take a look at my working patterns and, well, chill them the heck out.

And on another positive side, I’m finally starting to grow a very small, but very round and definitely there, bump. My jeans won’t do up and even leggings dig in uncomfortably . I’m holding myself back from dashing to Topshop Maternity (once I can drag myself from my sickbed/sofa, that is), as I’m more too-much-Christmas-dinner size than there’s-a-lumping-great-baby-in-there size, and there are many inches to be gained before I spend my hard earned cash on fashionable parachutes/tents, however darling they may be.

***Edited to add: I heard the heartbeat. Happiness. But also, another bit of false advertising: it does not sound like galloping horses. It sounds like a heartbeat.  A very fast baby heartbeat. With the odd “doof!” when the little one kicks. Why the thing about galloping horses? An uneccesary simile, if you ask me. Spade/spade, and all that. ***

A Blip on a Screen

Our weekend was spent at a music festival. I hardly need to tell you that we booked this marathon of camping,  questionable portaloos, drinking (but not for me, obv) and late nights, before The Bean put in an appearance. I was dubious about going in my new status as incubator, but equally determined that I can be a normal human being who has fun and stuff, despite (and because of!) the baby in my belly.

When I was fretting pre-festival about exposing my baby to mud, noise and what could essentially be one huge swine flu party, I searched the web for advice on forums and others’ experiences of going to festivals while pregnant. Other mums-to-be had posed questions very much along the lines of what I was thinking. One answer, from a hardened festie-going mother, stood out for me: “remember, you are exposing your baby to fun and unbridled joy!”.  I bore this in mind throughout the weekend.

At times it was a little trying. A couple of moments I wimpered at how tiiired I was, and how everyone was druuunk, and how often I needed a weeeee. I was tucked up in my sleeping bag and ten layers of woolen clothing by 11pm each night.  But I loved taking The Bean dancing in wellies (I was wearing wellies, but I like to imagine he/she was too) and laughing so much my jelly belly hurt, and eating a whole lot of hot doughnuts.

One moment was truly powerful and still makes me tear up thinking about it. We (me, G, our friends and MC Beanie B) were watching The Streets, and a track with a sweet melody which I hadn’t heard before started. The sun was going down, the crowd of thousands was revelling in the music. I put my hands in the pockets of my hoodie and cupped my fingers round my sort-of-bump, closed my eyes and swayed/squelched, having a private moment and talking to The Bean in my head. Are you happy in there? Are you dancing? Who are you going to be, little Bean? I wasn’t really listening to the lyrics of the song, just having a heart-swelling emotional moment.

When my mind tuned in to the words Mike Skinner was intoning, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The track was called A Blip on a Screen, and it is about his unborn child.  

  

(Warning: You might cry. Mum/Anna- that goes for you especially)

A blip on a screen/ You don’t know me/ I think about you/ And what you’ll grow to be

It was exactly what I was doing and thinking.  The coincidence was incredible, and made the moment even more special for me. It showed me that just as people you love who have died can come to you at the most unexpected moments, so can those who you have not been lucky enough to meet yet.

I fix and I plan/ But this is just mad/ I love you/ You’re only a hundred pixels on a scan

ps I’d like to say that I promise I’ll write about something else other than The Bean sometime soon. But, well, I can’t promise that. Sorry!