I think some pregnant women go a little bit crazy towards the end. Or at least this pregnant woman feels like she might be.
As it’s having a fantastic impact on my domesticity, I don’t think he’s about to complain. My second loaf of bread is baking as I type and I defrosted lamb mince, sausages and a chicken yesterday, which I’m about to turn into shepherds pie, sausage chilli and a roast – fit for freezing.
I’ve made the shopping list for home delivery – I’ve got a head stuck in my pelvis, jabbing at nerves, the internet is my friend today – and the house is beginning to look like we recently acquired a cleaner instead of the kittens currently ruining my trousers and sucking (yes, sucking) on my hoodie string.
I’ve even done ALL the laundry. Except for the handwashing. But hey, I might even end up doing that, who knows?
The creature’s room is sorted (well, the stuff is organised in the drawers now and the whole shebang is clean), we’ve almost gotten to grips with the reusable nappies and the sling and I keep joking that the baby’s coming today. I told you. Loca.
Maybe I would have felt like this anyway but with all of the excitement last week and its resolution, I keep worrying that maybe we’ve got it wrong. Meanwhile, the itching gets worse, leading me to draw blood all over my body (nice!) and adding a few more wakings to the night.
The thing is, though I joke that she’s coming today, I really wish she would. After everything that’s happened, I no longer feel like my body is the safest place for her. I want to be able to see her.