Gingerbread Woman

oh happy return

Finally I'm pc-re-enabled. So much has happened.....

The baby was a girl. Iris. Until they found testicles on my 7th scan. Apparently it was just how he was lying that hid them previously - the nice 7th scan lady even printed me off a picture of his tackle to 'give your husband, show him, everything good size'. No pictures of a face or ought but I've got his well formed baby bits nestled amongst the pages of a Salam Rushdie novel in case I locate that husband.

Marvellous.

The reason I had 7 (now 9) scans was cos said baby (we'll call him Freddie as I intend to) was worrying large. His head in particular was shown on scan 8 to be wider than any woman attached, as I am, to the notion of getting her flaps some action in the future, would want to contemplate.

Then today it turns out it may not be. It turns out that the nasty 8th scan man who seemed more interested in 'accidentally' rubbing my breasts whilst taking the last set of pictures, may have so distracted himself that the measurements he took were frankly, way off. Either that or by some strange quirk of fate my baby has actually shrunk in the last three weeks, a time known for being a growth spurt. Naturally I've now got to have scan 10 to check that the amazing growing baby isn't actually shrivelling.

I'm tempted to go find 8th scan man (who I should have known was bad news when his phone rang mid session with the Bond theme tune) and reduce his testicles to Freddie's size given that on the basis of freak scan, I missed one of my best friend's weddings as the Dr wouldn't give me a certificate to fly through fear that elephant head would drop out somewhere between London and Dublin.

I've moved. My house in London got flooded and I'm trying and failing to coordinate decorators so it can be rented. The prospects of two mortgage payments and no income on London for this month and next seems impossible to avoid. My new house in Hastings will be beautiful, but it's currently in that state of transition from hideous to gorgeous that requires everything to be worse before it's better. There's a hole where my kitchen wall should be, chunks of cement that came off with the wallpaper round the skirting of every bedroom, and my sink and kitchen units are currently propped up by the back door. Nothimgs unpacked to allow the builder / decorator space to work, so I climb over my life every morning to find a fresh pair of knickers.

I've got fish. Very fancy expensive big koi fish, and thousands of goldfish in two ponds that the previous inhabitants were due to empty and didn't. They are beautiful, and whilst they may be totally impractical to keep in a house I expect to fill with my neices, nephews and new baby, I would probably have enjoyed their beauty, had they not been the source of more trauma than both houses and all ten scans combined. So far three have died. It transpires through cancerous lumps rather than neglect, but I spent a few days self-flaggellating before fish pond man turned up to do a post mortem. One of the ponds is leaking and having entertained aforementioned fish pond expert three times with more cups of tea, and a wildly overpolite audience for his fish fettisism, I still seem to find myself running up and down steps at 8 months pregnant lugging buckets of water to the gasping goldfish so they can stop shivering in two centimetres of water, and swim again.

Fortunately amidst all this the pregnancy hormones seem to have finally kicked in a way that's worth talking about. I'm floating in a sea of calm and great humour. My friends and family have also been fabulous beyond even their own usual high standards. I managed to move with a posse of helpers who united to ensure I didn't lift so much as a glove. Jane Durks in particular who did both legs was superhuman, she was well aided at the London end with Ails and Renee, and in Hastings managed to get everything shifted with a posse of injured assistants, Dad in need of a hip replacement, Ray with a bad back, and Clare with pluresy. Great Grandma was on hand to get under her feet and mention repeatedly how big the house was.

Mum has been magic, running me to the hospital, buying groceries, coming round to help me clean up when the decorating debris gets too much. Dad has overseen the work on the house and keeps finding useful and expensive items like a spare sert of french doors, in his garage. Added to which I've been showered by a million acts of random kindness. Ames cooked dinner for all the helpers on move day, Simon invites me round to watch the footie on their telly, Cathy sent me sexy pink pyjamas in the post so I can sparkle whilst I tear on delivery day, my colleagues at work have picked up the pieces time and again whilst I've missed meetings due to collapsing ceilings and yet more hospital visits. Ails and Damo have lifted futons from dust drenched lofts and tucked me up on their sofa bed on a regular basis. Kate brough me a set of glamourous pashminas with breast feeding in mind, a lady at work knitted me a baby cardy......

I feel, amidst the mayhem, like I am still blessed with being the luckiest girl in the world.

posted by The Gypsy @ 8:54 pm