It is 7.43pm & I am sat in bed by way of protest. I am typing each letter with defiance. My laptop is asking me to stop being quite so brutal. No, I tell it:
I am in protest.
What are you in protest of?
I am in protest - I say proudly - of...well...of everything. Downstairs is a mess. I know I have to tidy it before the Man's brother-in-law comes with our new sofa tomorrow - I say petulantly - but right now I am in protest & so I shall not be tidying it until later. & yes, I know that I have to fill in that form that I promised the Man I'd fill in (the one I have been avoiding for no reason) but he is not home until midnight & I shall not be filling it in until later & besides which I do not have an envelope big enough to post it anyway so I will have to wait until tomorrow to get one. So there.
Oh. What's that you're eating?
I am eating brioche, in protest - I say.
In protest of what?
I am eating brioche by way of protest against the horrific heartburn I currently have. It has become so bad that I cannot drink anything warmer than luke-warm & each gulp of food feels like a fiery golf ball when it reaches the part between my boobs but I am eating this brioche because it is tasty & I want to.
Yes, I think I have gone mad.
It all started with a bath, in which I was given time to think about things. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. I am irritable & I thought that a bath & time to churn over & settle a few thoughts in my mind would help - alas, it has not. It has, for some inexplicable reason, turned me into my petulant 3 year old Daughter.
There were two things that I realised, that are now bugging me. Buzz, buzz, buzz. The first comes from reading those little online baby things that tell you where you are at with your pregnancy each week - how big your baby is by measurement of fruit or veg for some inexplicable reason (does a green-grocer write these?), what you should be doing to make it a super-genius & what ailments should currently be plaguing you at this moment in time.
A few weeks back the Man was reading one of these aloud, as he likes to, & it mentioned something in the 'Ideas for Dad' section (normally full of mundane advice such as 'take out life insurance' or 'give her a foot-rub') that has stuck in my brain ever since. It said something along the lines of this:
Dad, have you tried the 'Guess the body part' game yet? - as though it's a frigging well known game? Pish - Baby is moving a lot now & though Mum now can determine an elbow from a knee why not have fun by feeling Mum's tum & trying to guess for yourself!
Well, I can tell you it didn't stick in my mind just because it sounded like a total hoot (ahem), no it stuck because I actually had no idea as to which body-parts bulged out of my stomach. & it's not like they don't bulge, I mean they really do. It's like it's trying to break out, Alien styley, & sometimes it hurts! Ever since I have found myself frustratedly trying to decipher which bit of my bump is a head or a leg or a bum (all this made ten times worse by the fact that Daughter was breech so I am completely obsessed with whether this one is going to turn the right way or whether they might have to cut me open again) & I can't tell. So, in my mind, this makes me one or both of two things:
b) A useless mother to my unborn child
&, if I'm honest, I'm not sure which is worse!
Okay, so I know, I know I am being over-sensitive about this & that there are obviously deeper issues here, but it really makes me think that the green-grocers who write this baby-twaddle & Crap Ideas for Dad should just stick to the 'be nice, avoid her wrath & make sure the money is coming in, two pound for that bunch of bananas' tack. Don't invent tedious games that insult half of the mothers who are paranoid about which way around there baby is laying. Don't torment me, follow your own mundane advice - avoid my wrath, make my partner give me back-rubs (he's not going near my feet) & tell him to leave all his money to me, should I kill him in frustration!
Seriously, pregnant women are sensitive & will be driven to bed & brioche in protest [of nothing] in a second, so be careful what you say!
Oh, & the second thing I realised when I was in the bath was that the bath edges needed re-sealing. I got out swiftly after this second realisation.