But he didn’t get moving that evening, and the next morning the husband admitted that he’d not really felt Lumpy kicking throughout the night.  He normally does, because there’s nothing like kicking your father in the back while he’s trying to sleep.  See, these two are going to get along like a house on fire.

As the few kicks I’d felt lacked their usual intensity (try comparing a tap on the shoulder with a mean left hook) and Lumpy’s normally so active, I decided to call the midwife.  There was probably nothing wrong, but I spend too much time on the babycentre forumsand they’re the perfect thing for inspiring panic in a girl.  I was hoping that I’d get a call back (you have to leave a message 90% of the time) and be reassured that there was nothing wrong.  By lunch time I hadn’t heard anything but I managed to get hold of the phone number of the assessment unit at the hospital and they advised me to come in straight away.  There’s nothing like the words ’straight away’ to make you panic. 

The plan was that once I’d arrived I would have the usual blood pressure and pee checks, be monitored for a time and then go for a scan.  As it was, the unit was a little too full when I arrived and they sent me straight to wait for the scan.  Only moments after I’d sat down I was given a rather large kick.  The sort you don’t believe the strength of until you realised you’ve seen your belly pop out from the corner of your eye.  Yeah, that’d be about right.  The lump only wakes up at the moment I’m at the height of my worry.

I got called through for the scan and as I laid down on the bed he started off again.  Still, I was there and covered in gel already so we carried on.  Everything was fine, the placenta’s in the right place, Lumpy’s got his head the right way up (or down if you want to be specific about it) and he’s still got abnormally long legs.  The bit that makes me laugh is the way they seem to be able to estimate the baby’s current weight; it seems an impossible thing to be right about when there’s no scales involved.  Still, they’re saying he’s only a few ounces under 4lbs at the moment. 

So all that worry for nothing.  Part of me thinks that I was overly paranoid; another part realises that although I should expect a decrease in movement from any time now on, if that decrease had been gradual instead of sudden I wouldn’t have been worried at all.  I guess I’m just slipping in to the role of mother to a baby a little sooner than expected.

Remember a few months back when GTT had us admitting to our list of five?  Well Diane’s now admitted that she left a few actors off of her list because she only found them attractive because of the character they played.  Well that’s not entirely a problem for some of us seeing as 80% of our list were published on paper before they made it through to TV. 

But still, opening up that list to fictional characters does make it a whole new ball game. 

5. Kisten.  He loves his woman so much he dies for her.  Twice.  Come on, tell me that ain’t hot.  He also wears tight leather, rides a bike and kicks bad guy ass. 

4. Lucan.  He’s muscular, toned and tattooed.  Any further description should be saved for the book, because trust me, if you like your fictional characters hot, this one is not to be missed.

3. Smoky.  He’s a dragon.  Yeah, I know, how can a dragon be hot.  But he shifts into totally hot human form.  He’s superior, arrogant and most definitely the sexiest dragon alive. 

2. Edward Cullen. Edward is just enough to make you swoon.  We’ll ignore the fact that he’s only 17.  He’s been 17 for a very long time.  Time matters.  Sure, book Edward doesn’t exactly ooze sex, but he’s still a dream come true.  The love he feels towards Bella is the sort of thing every woman dreams of.  But he should know, I would have been the better choice. 

1. Eric Northman.  You have to admit that Alexander Skårsgard is totally but book Eric is hotter still.  He’s that little bit more bad, and definitely way sexier.  Seing as the series has only gone through two books, I won’t spoil it for you but damn he has some sexy moments. Go read Dead to the World.

*Of course if you’re not in the UK, you probably do’t have a clue what I’m going on about.

I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of a baby shower the first time round.  Probably for one of the same reasons I never make a big deal out of my birthday and never bother having a party.  I hate being the focus of everyone’s attention.  Also, I can’t help feeling it seems a bit cheeky to invite all your friends to spend an afternoon with you on the provision they bring your new kid a present.  The good ones will do it anyway once the baby’s born. 

But last time round the sister in law was insistent and we spent a morning going round one of the local baby shops registering and then a few weeks later we had a shower.  Being on a Saturday, and with a lot of our friends having to work, it was mainly family who turned up.  Still, it was a nice afternoon and we ended up with a few bits and nearly a month’s supply of nappies!

This time round it was easy to say we wouldn’t bother.  Our friends are scattered across this country and another, our families living near by are all busy over most weekends.  Either way, between the cot we’ve got left from last time and a fair few hand me downs from the niece who’ll be one around the same time Lumpy’s born, there’s not a great deal we need. 

I did register at mothercare and have made a list of the few bits we’re still missing.  There’s a grand total of 25 products not even totalling £300 in price and more than a few of them were the result of me going gooey over cute little socks.  The list will go to our parents and anyone else who asks for it, but we’re not going to be trolling it around shouting ‘buy our baby this!’

Last time around, despite our good intentions and our obsessive list making, when the boy was born we still only had the buggy and car seat, the cot and those few bits we’d been given at the baby shower.  Grandma had insisted that she wanted to take us shopping for everything else, but we’d not been able to by the time the boy turned up almost two weeks early. 

As it was, after being wheeled up from the delivery room to the ward, Grandma and Aunt A spent a while visiting and then went out to buy everything we’d not already got.

The books tell you that you need so much stuff, five different items to complete one task ten different ways.  We didn’t get many of the items that had been on my list but what we did get were the essentials.  And we worked with them.

This time around we have the benefit of knowing how little we can get away with buying, thanks to the wisdom of Grandma and Aunt A.  So we’re going the minimalist approach.  We know that a whole changing unit isn’t an essential, and if Lumpy doesn’t have crib bumpers it won’t be the end of the world.  We know that fancy singing night lights and video baby monitors are luxuries we can do without and that Lumpy really won’t care if we don’t have a top’n'tail bowl because we’ve gotten by without these things before.

So don’t expect to receive your baby shower invite in the mail.  Just be warned, we’ll be requesting your babysitting services soon instead.

At first I saw this one and thought dammit, it’s gonna be hard to write knowing two colleagues read this blog.  The gripes of my past jobs have all been blogged and forgotten, what will I write?  Then I thought sod it.  It’s my blog, and I’ll write what I will.  The chances are I’ve already bitched about it to R and K anyways. 

So some background first.  I’m a float PA in a law firm.  I end up covering anything from one day sicknesses and holidays to maternity leave, long term absences and vacancies.  If I end up covering in a vacancy, want the job the the fee earners want me to, theoretically it’s an easy process to move to a fixed role.  Yeah, that hasn’t happened yet.  The job I’m in was supposed to be my test interview.  I didn’t want it, but I needed something to get me back in to job hunting mode.  Of course things don’t always work out the way you plan and after an intensive thought process I decided to screw the extra £2-4k I could potentially get elsewhere and go for the job.

Yeah, I didn’t realise how much I wanted that extra money.  You see, despite a £4k pay jump in moving to this job, we’re struggling more financially now than ever.  Yeah, a baby on the way doesn’t make things easier either, but we thought we’d be in a very different place by now.  To make matters worse, this year’s bonus was a pathetic attempt to reward us for all our hard work (yes, those words were used) and there’s been no pay rise for any of us.  Match that with rising prices absolutely everywhere else and it’s been a bitter pill to swallow.

But hey, money’s not everything.  Or so I keep trying to tell myself.

Then there’s the job itself.  It was billed as, and I certainly initially thought it was, a good chance to do some interesting stuff.  Sure, there’ve been times when I’ve worked on some high profile cases (yesterday morning’s one will be a cracker when it hits the international sports news!) but for the most part the floats get treated like shit.  By fee earners and static PAs alike.

Long term roles are good.  People immediately start to assume that you’ll be there forever and treat you like you will.  They’ll be nice and friendly (if it’s in their nature to do so) and if there’s work about, you’ll get lots of it.  Because the fee earners know they’re stuck with you, they treat you like you’re their usual PA.  All’s well and good. 

Short term rolls suck balls.  There’s no other way of putting it.  If you’re lucky, and you’re doing a week or two in one place, you might hit jackpot and find a group of people who genuinely want you to work for them.  If you’re even luckier, you might get asked back again and again.  I’ve hit a few places where I’ve done some days and the people start to know and trust you can do the work.  It makes a world of difference.  But, for the most part it’s nothing like that.  You do a day or two and most fee earners will do anything to avoid giving you work.  They’ll get their trainee to do it or another PA, just as long as they don’t have to place their trust in you.  These are the ones we all dread.  And the other PAs are even worse.  You get bored so you offer to help out.  There’s nothing like being able to say at your reviews that you’re a team player.  Sometimes it feels like it’s all we’ve got to offer.  But you get filing that’s been stacked up for weeks because someone can’t be arsed to do it, archiving, printing.  I’ve even been asked to tidy cupboards.  Yeah, we’re only one step away from the toilets here. 

And so it goes…

I could tell you more.  I could rant and rave about this firm, about how six months ago we were all under the threat of redundancy and now they’re recruiting PAs left right and centre.  I could tell you how we won’t be getting a Christmas party this year but they can still afford to pay for numerous events for fee earners and trainees alike.  I could dish the dirt on exactly what goes down in this place, but at the end of the day I need my job, as much as I dislike it.  And there’s a fine line between venting and getting fired.

All I can say is thank god those two colleagues are in the low down ranks with me!

But last time we went up to see Nan, one of my cousins stopped by with her daughter.  She started modelling a few years back when she was about the age the boy is now.  She’s 10 now.  She only does a few shoots each year but she quite enjoys it.  The money she’s made has gone to buy a few bits like a computer for herself, but mostly it’s been saved and she’s ok with that.

And it kind of got me thinking that maybe the boy would like to try modelling.  Unlike me, he does quite enjoy being in front of the camera; anything to show off.  The only catch – how to get him through the door.

Well, Next Online have thought of that one.  On 4 November they’re launching a competition looking for new faces to star in a childrenswear shoot for Next Directory.

Next Generation Children’s Competition launches on Facebook on 4 November 2009. Thereafter, parents and guardians can upload photographs of entrants aged 4 to 7, and family and friends can vote for them. Voting closes at noon on 25 November, when the top 100 entrants will be named. Each finalist, along with three guests, will then be invited to attend the grand final at Woburn Abbey on 21 December.

And there’s prizes to be won too.  The chance to star in a photoshoot for Next Directory is the obvious but there’s also representation by the highly respected children’s model agency Urban Angels and a shopping spree at Next.  If you ask me, the shopping spree alone is worth the entry.  We all know how much kids wardrobes cost!

On 4 November, when the competition opens you will be able to send Next your entry form from Facebook. From 5 November entries will appear in a voting gallery.  For your peace of mind, the competition will be monitored 24 hours a day.

Next will be looking for photos of entrants in winter or party wear with no visible non-Next branding.  That said, the picture can either be full length or of a face.  If you become a fan of the Next Facebook page before 4 November they’ll notify you when the competition opens.

So in the next few weeks we’ll be trying to get some photos of the boy in winter wear.  We might even try a shirt and tie if they still fit.  There’s only one thing I hope: his mohican doesn’t spoil his chances.

*This is a sponsored post.

On Thursday morning the mother in law called.  She wanted to know what time the husband was leaving to pick the boy up and to let us know that she was taking the boys to the cinema and would then get the boy’s hair cut.  She called later in the morning to ask how we wanted the boy’s hair done.  He’s been saying for a while that he wants to grow it long (perhaps a little hero worship from Uncle B2 there) so we just asked for a trim.  The mother in law’s taken the boy to get his hair done quite a few times before, and now he’s grown out of the ‘I’m going to kick and scream and cry my way through this torture’ phase it always ends well.

So that afternoon the husband went off to pick up the boy.  He called me when he arrived to let me know he wouldn’t be back as quickly as he’d thought because they were still at the hairdressers.  I just put it down to typical Brasilian timing. 

And then he called.  He was sending through some pics of the boy’s new hair cut.  It turned out the sister in law had taken both him and his cousin to get their hair done.  The boy had seen a picture in a magazine and wanted his hair just like that.

I looked at the pictures.  My only possible response was “I’m going to fucking kill your sister.”

Because instead of the trim I’d been expecting, the boy was now sporting a mohican.  Complete with very shaved sides.  There was no getting away from this disaster without a set of hair trimmers and a very short blade.  Exactly what he said he didn’t want in the first place. 

What gets me is that a woman in her late twenties, a mother herself, can be quite so irresponsible.  With somebody else’s child.  She’d had her instructions, the request for a trim had been put in.  He’s five years old for crying out loud, he can’t make up his mind what he wants for breakfast each day, let alone what he wants his hair to look like for the next six weeks.  To allow a cut so different from what had been asked, and so unfixable in the first place is sheer madness to me.  If I was cruel I’d take my hair trimmers and run a stripe down the middle of her own daughter’s hair.  But I play nice with babies.

As for the boy, his hair hasn’t seen the desired hair gel since it was washed after he came home.  It looks marginally better flat but still fairly awful.  I’m waiting for a few weeks in the hope that his hair will see a growth spurt before I attack it with the trimmers.  In any event, I’ll be keeping cameras well away from him until that time.

And you know what, I bet the cousin’s mother was even less impressed than I am.

Two weeks ago was rough.  I crashed completely and couldn’t carry on.  The sleeplessness, the nausea, the sickness.  They were all too much.  And so I crashed.  And spent two days in a daze.  That Tuesday I called the psychiatrist’s office but apparently there was no way I could see the guy early.  I hate to think what they’d say if I called up and said I was on the verge of slitting my wrists.  Luckily I’m not stupid enough to test that one out.  Instead I took Wednesday off work as well.  There was never any question of me going in.  I couldn’t even get myself out of bed. 

Thursday I made it in to work, Friday too.  Friday was bad though.  The vomiting of the past two days hit a peak and by mid afternoon I felt too ill to even sit and feel sorry for myself.  I managed to get in to see the doctor and she prescribed me anti-nausea pills.  There was hope.

The weekend was bad.  We were supposed to be going down to nan’s for the evening to watch the village carnival.  Lots of walking, lots of standing.  I felt what I assumed was weak from lack of food.  Walking upstairs was enough to make me need to lie down.  Instead we stayed in for the night.  We managed the supermarket on the Sunday but it was too much for me really. 

Monday came and it was back to work again.  I felt completely out of it, almost drunk.  The anti-nausea pills were the culprit.  Then the proof that they just don’t work.  I hadn’t wanted to get on the tube in the first place but due to the in law’s complete inability to say what’s really going on and let everyone else plan around it accordingly, the husband had to take the boy down to Kent at the very last minute and wasn’t around to pick me up from the train station.  I didn’t get very far really and ended up taking a rather long bus ride the rest of the way home.

Tuesday was finally my appointment with the psychiatrist.  He was happy to take me off the lofepramine and prescribed another drug.  Unfortunately I have little faith in this one; I was on it for nearly a year at one point and it did little but make me feel very numb.  Still, the choice is rather narrow and with little over two months to go until I can switch back I figured it was just easier to do as I was told.  the anti-nausea pills still weren’t working well.  I nearly lost my stomach before I’d even gotten on the tube but at least this time I managed to hold on. 

Wednesday was bad again.  By lunch time I was desperate to get home.  Better to curl up in comfort with my own bucket than spend the afternoon, as I had done the morning, in the bathrooms.  I really had been sampling the finer side of our offices in the past few weeks.  So I got home and slept.  Because at least if you’re asleep you don’t know how bad you’re feeling. 

Thursday I didn’t even see the point in trying to get in to work.  Good job as well because I didn’t even make it to mid morning despite not having eaten anything.  Yeah, I don’t think until that point the husband realised quite how bad I was.  Whilst I flaked in front of daytime tv I sent him out for pringles and ginger biscuits.  I could stomach those?  Right?  Apparently not.  Let me tell you, pringles and sickness don’t mix well.

Still, another doctors appointment that evening and he prescribed me some different anti-nausea pills.  Hope again. 

I was only down to work Friday morning with a parentcraft class in the afternoon so I decided to skip on the work idea.  The new pills seemed to be working but I was feeling quite out of it again.  Probably not the best idea to be pushing myself too hard so I felt I had a good enough excuse.  I didn’t manage to eat a lot during the day but we ordered pizza that evening and I felt I should congratulate myself on managing to eat a fair amount.  But I suffered for it.  I’d forgotten the hell of pregnancy heartburn.

But then Saturday morning I proved that maybe these new anti-nausea pills didn’t work quite as well as I’d thought.  Even water seemed to be aggravating my stomach.  It was certainly difficult to get down.  Dehydration we thought.  In Brasil they give people coconut water to help with it so the husband offered to go and get some the next morning.

Of course amongst all my drama, I’d kinda forgotten it was halloween.  We hadn’t thought about taking the boy out trick or treating, but then he seemed perfectly happy in front of Saturday evening TV and wasn’t even fussed when the first group of them knocked on the door.  Because clearly Hole in the Wall is far more important.  Luckily I’d heard them outside and had already raided the cupboards throwing out boxes of stale biscuits and half opened packets of gummy sweets.  I managed to rustle up a few out of date sweets and chocolate coins which seemed to do the job.  At least one of our cupboards is a bit clearer now.  I just hope the local kids aren’t too discerning about the sweets the eat.

And Sunday proved that coconut water is much easier to get down than plain water.  Even though the husband couldn’t manage to get hold of the pure stuff and the cans were loaded with sugar, I could at least drink it easilly enough and managed to get through two litres plus the water I’d started on first thing that morning.  And I held my stomach all day.  We considered it a success. 

So today found me back at work.  I didn’t feel great but figured I was at least functional.  I felt worse whilst I was on the tube but managed to avoid the feeling of needing to jump off the train and heave all over the platform.  There was even a slight sensation of hunger as I got in to the office.  Unable to stomach toast (I won’t even let the husband eat it near me) I grabbed a croissant and picked at it.  But, by 10 o’clock I’d given up on that idea and instead let my stomach do whatever the hell it wanted.

Yeah, I’m not sure these new anti-nausea pills are working either.

I arrived early.  I’m not sure if it’s my fear of being late and missing the appointment, or my desire to get out of work that does it, but it happens every time.  I’ve been in the hospital when I’ve turned up 40 minutes early before: it’s eerie.  Last time I sat outside and it was a pleasant enough afternoon.  This time I sat outside and froze.  It’s my own fault for only carrying a thin jacket and no jumper, but I never really need them between home, the tube and the office, and I certainly don’t need them when on the tube or at the office. 

Blood pressure and urine checked.  Fine.  Blood pressure was 102/62.  Apparently that’s ok, but looking at the notes, it seems to me that it’s the lowest it’s been so far.  Whether that’s a side effect of the pregnancy or the lofepramine I don’t know.  Another mystery we’ll probably never know the answer to.  Poked and prodded.  Lumpy was lying head down with his back to my left side.  Heartbeat apparently sounds good.  I wouldn’t know what good or bad was anyway. 

Blood taken for the dreaded glucose check.  I’d originally asked the husband to come with me.  You remember, I don’t do well with needles.  But then it occurred to me that he’d have to bring the boy, and the boy wouldn’t do waiting.  And as I’d not thought to ask what sort of testing they were going to be doing, there was a chance it could be a very long wait between two draws.  So I figured I’d just have to suck it and get on with it alone.  And I did.  I was rather proud of myself. 

And then for my questions.  Well one question really.  I explained that I still wanted a home birth and asked what the earliest date I could have one would be.  37 Weeks.  Not that I could work out in my head at that point when 37 weeks would be.  The midwife explained how they’d book it and that was all good.  Except, she said, if there were any complications.  Like gestational diabetes. 

Oh shit.

You see last time round, I didn’t really have a clue what was going on.  I got my blood tested, the results were so borderline that I may as well have had gestational diabetes as far as the doctor was concerned and off I went to the dietitian to learn how to cut out all sugar from my diet.  They transferred my care across to the hospital straight away (instead of leaving it until the last minute) where once a week I’d get my finger jabbed with a needle and told that I was doing a good job of keeping my blood sugar within acceptable levels.  An explanation of what this all mean for me and the pregnancy was never given to me, the closest I got was that it would go away once the boy had been born.  Whether it was that the doctor never felt it necessary to give an explanation, it got lost in the translation, or the husband felt that it would best if I didn’t know what it all meant, I don’t know.

What I do know is that this time round I needed it explained to me.  Just in case.  There’s enough you can read about it butthe upshot is, if I do get it this time around, during labour my blood sugar would be closely monitored and treated.  And yes, that means more needles.  It also means no home birth.

Of course none of that really hit me until I walked out of there.  I worked out when 37 weeks would start.  27 December if you go by their dates produced from the scan.  If Lumpy is born at the same point the boy was, he’ll appear on 23 December.  4 days difference.  4 days being enough to land me in hospital.

And then it began.  Because I realised there’s a good chance that I could have to go to hospital in order to get this kid out.  And it’s only just occurred to me that I just can’t deal with that.  Just the thought of it scares me beyond belief.  And with everything that’s going on at the moment, that fear is just one more thing to deal with.  One more thing that I can’t deal with.

I went to bed at 7:30 last night.  I wasn’t feeling well anyway.  I was tired, I’d been sick (sorry Tooting Broadway station).  I still felt like my stomach was churning.  The last thing I wanted to do was stay awake with my thoughts.  I was too tired to even talk about it, so didn’t even get the chance to tell the husband what was going on.  But I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t clear my mind of that nagging fear of hospital.  And the tears.  And even when I did and actually managed to fall asleep I’d only wake up and it would start all over again.  I wasn’t even lucky enough to get a block of sleep before the night really began.  I just kept waking.  And waking.  And waking.  I managed three hours just after 3:00.

And so I woke up exhausted this morning.  But at least I didn’t feel sick.  The trouble is though, it seems that even the act of eating a small breakfast these days is enough to make the nausea start.   And it did.  And I cried a little over my breakfast.  And then again in the shower.  And it felt like I just couldn’t hold it all together.  Even though I was desperately trying to suck it up and be strong.  Because I was sure that if I could just make it to work, that would be half the battle over. 

But I made a mistake.  I weighed myself.  Last time I did that I was happy.  I’d put on just over 2lbs.  Pregnancy is the one time I’m allowed to be happy about weight gain.  But this time no such luck.  I’d lost 4lbs.  4 freaking pounds.  Because I can’t eat half the time, and when I can, there’s a good chance it’ll come back up again.  And I shouldn’t be losing weight. 

But it was too late.  And I couldn’t hold it together.  And by that point I knew that there was no way I was going to make it in to work.  No point in going in to spend most of the day hiding in the toilets trying not to cry.  And so I called in sick despite knowing that I won’t get paid for the time off. 

And I stayed home and blogged.  And cried.

I cried at my desk, I cried in the toilets.  I almost went home early just so I could cry the great big heaving sobs that were threatening to come out.  I cried at the doctors and I cried in my room.  I cried. 

I told the doctor everything.  She asked what I wanted to do about it.  “I don’t know” I admitted.  “I just want to stop feeling so awful all of the time.”  She agreed that I should stop taking the old meds and explained that the only other options were all in the same class as the new ones.  She warned me that the side effects could last a good three weeks more, that they didn’t tend to prescribe that class any more because the side effects tended to be so bad.  I groaned and explained that I couldn’t go on as I had been, that maybe if I could only get some sleep then everything else would fall in to place. 

The doctor prescribed me sleeping pills.  Six little round blocks of temazepam to be spread over the time between now and my next appointment with the psychiatrist in two weeks.  Not to be used six days in a row to avoid addiction and lessen the insomnia when I’m not taking them any more. 

I had high hopes.  I took one last night, around half an hour before I went to bed as the doctor had told me.  I went to bed at about 9:30 and didn’t take long to fall asleep.  That’s not my problem.  I woke again just after 12.  And again every hour until just after 3.  I slept for another two hours and then started waking up again.  I must be the only person who can wake through sleeping pills, whose husband’s snoring can wake them through the sleeping pills.  I’d like to blame him.  I could chuck him out of the bedroom for the next few months and get some good night’s sleep.  Unfortunately we know that’s not the problem, as annoying as it may be. 

And now I feel tired again.  Not groggy like the doctor told me to expect.  Not unable to function for a few hours until that little tablet’s effect wore off.  Tired, exhausted, because it’s just another night in a long run that I’ve been unable to sleep. 

I felt like crying again this morning.  My back hurt.  It’s not been so bad in the past month or two.  At least that’s been something.  Even when it has been bad, I’ve had some respite in the morning, as if a night of lying down has given it the chance to recover.  This morning I didn’t get that; I could feel it even before I got up.  A hot shower didn’t help, rubbing left if feeling just as bad.  And all I wanted to do was lie down and cry.

This afternoon I have a catch-up with the Wicked Witch.  Every part of me tells me I should try to postpone it.  She’ll ask how I am, and then I’ll cry, and afterwards I’ll have to spend half an hour in the bathrooms desperately trying to fix my makeup so no-one else realises. 

I don’t have the energy for it anymore.