I’m sitting at my almost-empty desk, staring at my actually-empty inbox and wondering how to fill, or not fill, my last hour at work before starting maternity leave.

I’ve rerecorded my voicemail greeting and rewritten my out of office reply- both of which basically now say “not today thankyou”. I’ve conducted an archeological dig of my desk, revealing layer upon layer of documents which really ought to have been archived properly months ago (and now are). And I’ve eaten far too many biscuits, which I brought in to the office to mark my departure.

I could be gone for a year. A year! And I’m trying to work out whether I feel at all sad about this. I don’t think I do, actually.

The only thing, in fact, which makes me feel slightly wistful, is how all-consuming my working life has been, and yet how easily I’m slipping out of it. It makes me wonder whether I’ve been getting far too worked up about it for far too long. The gap I might leave in the office has all but closed over already; a colleague’s belongings are already stacked by my desk. My entire career for the past five years (my length of tenure at the Sausage Factory)  has been boiled down to a box containing umpteen notebooks, which must be preserved and locked away Forever And Ever Amen, for legal reasons. When it came down to it, there weren’t all that many loose ends to tie up. Maybe that means I’m super-efficient. Maybe it means I was always just another brick in the wall. I think the latter.

I have no idea what it’s going to be like to not be working.  Back in May 2002 I finished my degree finals on a Friday, before  starting my TV career on the Monday. Since then I’ve had a maximum of 2 weeks off and always with the next project looming over my head. And it has been… intense. I’d be lying if I said the prospect of NO WORK NO WORK doesn’t make me feel gleeful (and yes I know having a baby is hard work. Bla bla. Let me revel in ignorance at least until she’s born).

Happily, G is also starting what we’re calling his “maternity leave” today too. Redundancy was not what we had planned for Winter 09-10, but it’s what he was handed. But thankfully he’s secured new work which starts in February, so these few weeks off for him are a gift, really (and how was that paragraph for a whole ream of unwritten, angst-ridden blog posts, rolled into one? Oh, it has been an interesting time).

We plan to spend a lot of time together, our last weeks together as a twosome. And I imagine there will be a fair amount of running around fetching things on his part, and a lot of breathless huffing on mine. All the while waiting for the offspring to make her descent.

Like never before, the coming year is a total unknown quantity. But for the next few weeks at least (I trust) I know one thing: there will be no alarm clock for me. Clock-shaped, baby-shaped, or otherwise.

So I think I’ve reached the part where incubating an offspring becomes hard work. Ever since the end of the sicky part, I’d been enjoying the glowy part and generally feeling rather fab and pleased with myself for finding it all relatively easy.

Haha. Hahahaaaaaa *thud* (that’s me keeling over with the effort of laughing drily. Don’t bother waiting for me to get up, I’m bound to be flailing on the floor like an upended dung beetle for at least an hour).

It’s not… bad, as such.  At 33 weeks, I am still working (mutter, mutter, roll on this Friday when glorious mat leave begins!), I am still managing to get dressed, and stand, and waddle walk, and bark orders. Really, plenty of women have it way, way worse than me. My complaints are of the common garden variety, thankfully.

But I confess that it’s getting, physically, rather tiresome. I won’t bore you with too many details- you’ve heard it all before from every other heavily pregnant lady. But here’s just one nugget: did you know that at as your body prepares for birth, your pelvis starts to sort of cleave itself open like a spatchcocked game bird? You’re welcome, and yes, it hurts.

 Meanwhile, I’m extremely tired; it takes a good 30 seconds to negotiate rolling over in bed, when the Bean decides to let me sleep, that is- as far as she is concerned, there’s a party in my uterus every night, and the theme is  sharp elbows and knees; and it’s really quite hard to negotiate the usual movements of life- standing up, sitting down etc- without the aid of stomach muscles you can actually use without sending sharp jolts of pain across your abdomen.

 But seeing as I have six and a half weeks to go, perhaps I should stop complaining, stick something festive in my piehole, put my feet up when I can, and try to enjoy the last few weeks of peace.

First let me tell you: I have a degree. First class honours, actually (preen).  I read proper books, not just ones with pink covers and gold titles- though I am rather partial to those too, I confess.  I follow the news- nay, I WORK in the news. 

 So there is really no excuse or explanation for my horrific choices in film. For a start, I haven’t seen any of the classics. I haven’t seen Star Wars. I haven’t seen Pulp Fiction all the way through without falling asleep. I haven’t seen any of the Godfather films.

But the films I have seen don’t really make up for the lack of big hitters. Whenever G goes out or away for the night without me, I get a pavlov’s dog sort of reaction which sends me straight to Movies on Demand with an alarm shrieking CHICK FLICK CHICK FLICK blaring in my head. I’ll then waste £3.99 and 90 minutes of my time watching some god awful drivel. Which I don’t even enjoy.

The top three horrors which have scorched my eyeballs in recent months are, in order of direness:

At Number 3, the cliched and misogynistic Bride Wars: Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway confirm that women really are shallow and obsessed with weddings- to the point where they will shit on their best friend with no qualms.

Festering in the Number 2 spot, The Sweetest Thing: Cameron Diaz proves that women might like to drink beer and tell obscene jokes, but underneath it all, bless them, they just want to wiggle their bottoms and find a nice man.

And crashing clunkily in at Number 1, Marley and Me: Jennifer Aniston, er, I don’t really know… has a dog? It…. jumps around a lot and… then it dies?  And the viewer is left feeling that the hollowness inside them could fill an entire universe? I still don’t know what that film was supposed to be about. Answers on a postcard please.

Not only are these sorts of films badly written, poorly acted and utterly two-dimensional , they are also, on the whole, morally reprehensible.

But for some reason I keep going back for more, hoping that the next one will be a great one. Maybe I’m stuck in the 90s, the golden age of rom com- when chick flicks were good (see Four Weddings and  a Funeral)  and even if they weren’t, I was a teenager so thought they were good. Whatever the reason, it has to stop. Especially as it’s come to my attention that in 9 weeks time (faint) I will have cause to be sitting on my behind for long stretches of time, both day and night, feeding a small creature.  I am going to need films.

So I need some help. Any reccommendations? But not horror. And not too violent (well, I don’t mind fighting but I don’t do torture). And not a blasted Jennifer Aniston monstrosity, *please*.  

I’ll start. At the moment, by virtue of the fact that I watched it again at the weekend and loved it again, my favourite film is (this is embarassing, but it is actually a good film) About A Boy. So you see, I have not turned my back on what you might call “female-skewed” movies. Just as long as the poster doesn’t have two people kissing on it, I’m open to suggestions.

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.

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.

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.

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…).

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.

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?

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.