Archive for December, 2009

Friday 4.30pm

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 I’ve conducted an archeological dig of my desk, revealing layer upon layer of documents which really ought to have been archived properly months ago (and now are).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.


Not glowing

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.