Fear not regular blog followers
I haven't fallen down the bowl whilst attempting to simultaneously lean over and hold my own hair back. Nor has the interminable wait in the Whitechapel Albion Health Centre, least customer friendly doctors surgery in the world, forced me to leapfrog the desk and set up camp there until they find a way of not totally alienating each and every one of their clients.
Naught nearly so exciting has befallen me in fact.
I've been sleeping.
And, on the few occasions when getting out of bed seems remotely manageable (read, the days when work is unavoidable and I haul myself to and from), I've been technologically impoverished. I can't blog from work. The government secure, no tales of Jonny P from here dearie, internet, won't let me on.
It's due to change. A friend of a friend found me a full on PC for a bargain basement £120, and better still, is delivering it, but not for another few weeks.
I have however joined a library (which, we're so cool in Whitechapel we don't call a 'Library') think instead 'ideas centre', and, assuming that the entire student population of the East End aren't in on the same night (which is rarer than you'd think), I'll be back to semi-regular blogging in the meantime. Only they severely time limit me. Half an hour in peak.
Sixteen minutes left.
How come I used nearly half my time and I haven't told you anything yet? I've got three ready written blog entries to tell, saved up and lovingly edited and all, but sadly, time's too sparse, it'll have to be edited highlights.
I'm writing. Loads. I have left the telly in the loft. I've always fancied a telly-free existence and I've got it. It's lush, I'm doing loads of virtuous things that counteract the demon in my belly determined to bring me down.
I shouldn't be mean about Tadpole E.
He's cool, I saw him on a screen last week (another unofficial unscheduled one, following another short bout of bleeding), and no, I don't know yet that he's a he. I will find out though and will be happy to share the news. I just reckon he's a he.
He's nuts. It took them twenty minutes to measure his head (tells you how old he is apparently) because he wouldn't stop bouncing. Little sister said 'it's about reflecting you, if you're bouncingng he's bouncing'. Only I was midway through a week off work in which I had literally done nothing except sleep, sloth stylie. We've concluded he's got ADHD. That may not be the right letters but you know what i mean, Constant bouncing caffeine dosed stylie disorder.
Nine minutes
I saw the midwife last week. Albion health centre, appointment was ten. She let me in at 10.45.
Took a call at 10.55.
Made one at 11.
Had a long chat with her mate about how 'no way is your appointment today darling' at 11.05. Convinced said friend to see the next patient for her ( I assume, but, may be wrong in doing so, that said friend was a fellow midwife)in exchange for the forgotten antenatal appointment.
Popped off to deliver labels to friend at 11.15. Found a spare urine bottle for friend at 11.20. Bloodpressure thing 11.25. Took another call. Complained about how an hour was never long enough, asked me a few questions, popped in to do her mate's appointment as mate's son was waiting in the carpark, complained about being late for the clinic and then looked at me like I was a non-breastfeeding demon when i dared to ask a question. Threw me out two hours later.
Answer to question was no, the hospital here doesn't have a birthing room, has a labour ward. Synchronised pushing. Collective screaming. Multi-womb coordinated tearing.
Uh huh. That seals it. I'm moving out of London to deliver!
no minutes.
Miss you already
Next time, it's coming from a catalogue....
You start off going 'that's daft, how can I possibly be twelve weeks pregnant when I only had sex ten weeks ago?'. Well, I do. Those of you nicely coupled probably don't count down the days from your last shag in quite the same way.
Then you get used to it. Forget that it's nuts and start counting from two weeks before the actual deed with reckless abandon.
Then people start talking about trimesters. There's three, and working on the nine month thing, it's a natural assumption that each last three months. You hear a lot that the first and last ones are frankly, pants, but the middle one is where you get full of energy and bloom all over the shop. I assume I'm heading to the middle one today. Cos today is twelve weeks, three months, one trimester, right?
Wrong. I discover reading under the duvet, last night.
Suddenly, for the transformation from a weary vomiting pasty to blooming, the two weeks when you're not actually pregnant that count, don't.
I don't know I can bear another two weeks of this trimester.
Sleeping, even to a girl like me that's done it on floors, in lecture theatres, on long distance coaches, is suddenly a skill beyond me. Feeling human, ditto. After a couple of weeks of 'I'm not getting the morning sickness' euphoria (quite common at the start I've since read), it sledgehammers you. 24 / 7. Then there's the fact that the only things that cure it are carbs. Bland, tasteless, stodgy carbs. Potatoes, bread, crackers, biscuits. Food in fact with zero nutrients that turn one into a nothot, cross, bun.
It's enough to make me vow that if, and believe me, it's a bloody big if, I do decide to have more kids, they're, without a doubt, coming from the body of another hormone wracked wrench.
Who's the Daddy?
Is on a par with 'how much do you weight?' as a question I relish answering.
I'm not going to pretend I've never had a one night stand before. Some of you would, frankly, roar at the suggestion. It is true to say however that I've never had a one night stand with someone I knew absolutely nothing about, before. He was, you may remember, a very pretty man I met in a pub. Fresh out of college and enchanting on a number of levels. We had a beautiful night together. Having said that, it's not how I'd chose to have babies in my ideal life.
There's actually nothing like a decade of dating women to make child adoring women think about the role of the father. I'd decided I'd adopt or foster, assuming my relationships would continue to be with women. I'd decided that a kid needs a father, and bringing a kid into the world with a set of problems I've created is crazy, when there are so many kids with much worse problems I could solve. I'd decided that having a fathers involvement if I chose to have a kid in a female relationship, would be critical. Then realised how complicated that would be and flopped back, brain weary, onto the 'solve not create problems' pillow.
All of which, with the benefit of hindsight screams, 'ah huh, modern girl, you not heard of sleeping with your wellies on then?'
All of which screams, 'it's not like this is something you've not thought about, so think about it lady'.
I guess I had a hard time with Dad having a hard time partly because he didn't say anything I hadn't thought first when it came to the 'how could you?' strain of the conversation.
I know.
But we are where we are. I've written a lovely letter the boy, and we've talked, gently, kindly to each other. I've told him that given the choice I'd like my kid to know both it's parents. I can't do much more. If I never hear from him again, then letting him know how to contact us and reminding him gently that's is not too late is all I can do.
At a much later date.
For now I'm just leaving him be.
Hoping he'll come to the decision I'd like him to come to, of his own accord. What else can I do? Any pressure from me that led him there would be rubbish later down the line if it wasn't where he wanted to be.
Knowing that actually I need to think 'it's you and me baby and we'll be just fine'.
Which I do, but that doesn't stop me hoping.
Doesn't stop me checking my phone daily and waking up in the middle of every night to ponder if he'll be in touch. It's not about him, for me. I don't want anything for me. I just want to give my kid the best chance of being self assured, feeling adored and spending energy on something more positive that wondering why Daddy doesn't love them or what Daddy is like.
So, whilst I don't mind the nearest and dearest asking 'who's the Daddy', when random folk, like the bloke I dated once who I told to stop him pestering for a date, or the girl who took over my job down under and is now back at my office, ask. I tend to be a tad twitchy about the whole damn thing.
Testing
One, two, three. In a toilet at work. Positive. After ten minutes of determined squinting, faint as though.
Four, at Ailsa's, most likely positive
Five, at the Dr's, negative, then 'ooh, maybe positive, can't tell'.
Six, seven, at Annette's house. Negative
Eight, negative, but broken
Nine, at casualty, positive
Ten, at Annette's house again, positive
See, nothing to it, idiot proof.
