Things Wot I Have Learned

Anyone have any niggling questions about the whole experience of giving birth? Well guess what: I'm now officially qualified to give you some answers. So, without further ado, based upon my own experience, here are some things I didn't know about labour and birth before this week:

What are contractions like? Imagine the worst abdominal cramping you've ever had. Now multiply that by five. Now picture it wrapping around your back and sides and front like an invisible Girdle of Pain. Oh, and imagine that girdle tightening and twinging and aching every three to seven minutes like clockwork...for 20 hours without ceasing. (And then imagine finally getting to rest because of an epidural!)

What is it like to push a baby out? I was slightly surprised by this one, but go check any pregnancy website, and it's just like it says on the tin: think of it like pushing out a 7-pound poop. Yes: this is the point where noses are wrinkled in disgust and we all think, "did you really need to go there?" Well, no, I didn't need to, but consider yourself accurately forewarned should you decide to push a baby out some time in your future. No one's exaggerating or finding a close-but-not-really-accurate simile...it really is like that.

What is your body like afterwards? Weird. I think that pretty much sums it up. Because your abs have been so distended by the tiny person expanding your uterus for the past nine months, they don't just snap back into place like a rubber band. Even right now, I'm still quite loose and saggy-feeling in the front. My muscles are still strong enough that I can pull them in like a corset (or like before I was pregnant when I wanted to hide my fat when trying on cute clothes!), but they do hang quite a bit, so I still look about 4 months pregnant. It's not too bad, though: at least my boobs finally overshadow my waist again! Hell: I have a waist again!

Do you really go through it like they show on TV? Let me say for the record: TV is lies. I know we've all seen a birth in a movie or on TV. Either it's a fictional drama where the water breaks spontaneously before any other sign of labour and the mother must be rushed to the hospital in a flurry of squealing tyres and vociferous swearing, the like of which would put most sailors to shame - or it's a reality TV program that involves lots of dramatic pauses and carefully selected edits of the hours-long process that only show the mom when she's at her worst: sweating and crying and screaming from exhaustion and pain, berating her baby-daddy for getting her into this position in the first place, and calling out for an epidural like a schizophrenic junkie jonsing for meth.

Let me say, I had an epidural - and I needed it - but I wasn't screaming. I confess, I cried, but I was tired and in pain, and essentially just told my lovely midwives, "It's just been so long that I can't do this any more without some more help." Plus, you don't have to lie down, legs spread, in the mother of all undignified positions in order to give birth after an epidural. I sat up on the end of the bed and was propped up in some foot-rests. Nothing terribly undignified in all of that. And really: before the epi I did sob during some of the more painful contractions, but I didn't do any of the characteristic groaning or crying out until I was pushing Ethan out. And that wasn't even because of any pain: it's just a bit like the 'roid-monsters at the gym lifting weights in an effort to overcompensate for...something. You just have to make a noise when you're going through such a serious physical exertion: you honestly can't help it.

What about the general idea of the indignity of giving birth? Not nearly as bad as I thought it'd be. Because everyone who has anything to do with getting you through the birth of your baby is not only very sweet and attentive, but extremely professional, it's very easy to get over any awkwardness about dropping trou for a perfect stranger. Plus, you don't actually have to be uncomfortably exposed for very much of the whole process anyway. I mean, I know I'm no prude, but by the end of it all when one of the midwives mentioned the possibility of my being uncomfortable about having everyone on the labour ward so - well - up close and personal with my business, I was able to laugh it off and tell her honestly that you get over it pretty quickly. They're all good enough to treat it like it's no big deal, which helps you stay relaxed. And really; it's in everyone's best interest to keep the agonised pregnant lady as relaxed as is humanly possible.

As I say: in the end, it's all been worth it. Goodness knows how long it'll take before we manage to master the whole sleeping-for-more-than-5-minutes-without-being-held conundrum, or sufficiently decode which cries are for food and which are for gas pains and which are for a desperate need for more love and attention, but we will get there. And while we try, I take satisfaction in knowing that little E is all mine (though yeah, I share him with Seb). He's my son, with my nose, and my habit of sleeping with one hand curled under my cheek. I enjoy how strange that sounds, and yet, how I'm actually allowed to say it. I have a son! And as I have maintained from the moment they plopped him onto my chest in the delivery room, all slimy and covered in a less-than-metaphorical version of our combined blood, sweat, and tears...he's perfect. Absolutely, unequivocally, and sublimely perfect. I have to keep reminding myself that as well as I feel like I already know him in some ways: we've only really known each other for three days! We're still new to each other and there's certainly a learning curve, but it's a curve that will be full of fun moments and hilarious discoveries.

So yeah: I'm still quite a lot of interesting and awesome things as a person, but I'm also a person who changes diapers, gets excited about pee or poop (because it means he's eating well!), knows how to wrap a baby better than a Chipotle burrito, can have a pacifier in her mouth without being on drugs at a rave (and have it be vaguely socially acceptable), and who - for the first time - cares for someone who is completely dependent upon her...and to all appearances, if as fond of her as it's possible for a tiny human to be. I'm a momma now.

Not a Bad Way to Spend the Week

I'll save the longer version of events for a time when I'm not executing the old mommy-on-teh-Interwebz standby of typing one-handed while I hold my sleeping/nursing/crying child.

Just two days after he was due to make an appearance, Ethan James Jeffcoat Dick came along at about 12:24 on a Wednesday morning. He has his daddy's ears and feet, and - so far as I can tell - my nose. Oh, and a decent head of dark brown hair. As the hospital counts it, I laboured for a good 14.5 hours to get to meet my brand new son. And that was with the successive aid of entenox, the birthing pool, and - God's gift to women - an epidural. As I count it, I'd had contractions you could time since Monday evening.

Needless to say, this amazing little guy was worth every minute of it. I still can't quite believe that he's mine...even having been in the midst of the action for the whole process. I'm entranced to watch him watching me when I feed him...and giggle about how he keeps his hands up by his face when he eats or sleeps. He's such an awesome baby so far and it's only been two days.

Eviction Notice

My dear child, darling offspring, fruit of my loins, progeny, tiny person taking up too much space in my insides:

This notice is official. You're due to come out tomorrow, and darn it, I expect you to do just that. This body ain't big enough for the both of us, ombre. Someone's got to go, and considering I've only been housing you the past nine months so you could grow a body of your very own, I suggest that the person who needs to go is you.

Seeing as how you now make it nigh on physically impossible to put on and tie my own shoes, I submit to you the idea that we've reached an impasse, you and I. We simply can't go on this way. Since you're my baby, some day you'll know enough to say to me, "Mom: in the immortal words of Lennon and McCartney, 'we can work it out'!", but right now you haven't quite learned that valuable musical lesson yet. And anyway, the only working out I intend for us to do is for me to work to get you into the bright world outside of your watery uterine home. Sorry if that seems harsh, but hey: we've got to cut the cord some time...let's make it this week, shall we?

Besides, think of how much more fun we'll be to one another when we can interact face-to-face. When your daddy can play more interesting games than "What's This Limb I'm Poking?" or "Count the Vicious Jabs to Mommy's Abdomen". And considering how much you seem to enjoy stretching your legs (at the expense of my already-over-stretched skin and muscles, I might add), just think of all the room you can have in a world that extends more than 3" on any given side beyond your cramped and curled body. If you oblige my request and decide to be born...now-ish - I can give you all the space in the world to stretch out those bowed little legs and those pigeon-toed little feet! You can extend them to their fullest reach! And I won't have to push them back into a folded position because they're threatening to burst my insides like that creepy scene in Alien. Just imagine the possibilities, Baby.

All Projects Great and Small

With four official days left on the Countdown to Parenthood, I'm still trying to find ways to keep myself occupied. Of course, as you will have guessed, that means finding things to make and bake and do around the house. Yes, I still get out to the gym most weekdays, and I do some errands and some window shopping and some blogging and some reading of other blogs, but let's be honest: most of those tasks don't exactly require MENSA-level effort in the thinking department. Okay, so neither do baking pies and completing crafts, but at least those things do require some planning and general effort of concentration. Yes, the gym requires physical effort, but it's still mostly an excuse to move around and have fun listening to all the frat-party-worthy music I have in my iTunes library.

My first project? On the small side of the scales. I decided to go out and grab some ribbon to hang the awesome Gisela Graham wreath I bought on the living room door. When did I buy a wreath? The other weekend when we hit up Garson's out in Esher to snag our lurvely pumpkin for carving. (There will be a list of the contending carving patterns to come...) Amongst the other Christmas decorations I got, I figured I'd get a wreath, too. But it's not just any sort of wreath. If you followed the link to my Pinterest page, you'll see that it's a heart-shaped "Shaker" wreath. Now, I have my doubts about whether it was actually hand-crafted by sexless furniture-makers awaiting Christ's return, but it's still pretty darn cute. Of course, with the rustic faux-Shaker vibe the wreath had going on, I needed a similarly rustic ribbon to hang it with. Much as my first instinct was to go for the widest red ribbon I could source, all the wide red ribbon had a satin finish...and that just didn't sit well with the whole wicker branches aesthetic. So in the end, I went with this:

The whole red-and-white with the stitching reminds me of all the Scandinavian Christmas decorations at IKEA, but without being so Christmas-fabulous that I'll have to take it down once January arrives. Here is the overall effect:

So now, with my wreath hung nicely, it's time to move the slider to the other end of the spectrum and consider tackling a big project. Something that could potentially call for a sewing machine (which I haven't used in years...it's a bit weird) or perhaps just some quality time spent with the iron and no-sew hemming tape. That's right: yesterday's trip to North Camp involved popping into the Fabric Box to scope the latest Prestigious Textiles offerings for a crib skirt.

As for how I can go toe-to-toe with the idea of a behemoth project of these proportions...well, John and Sherry Petersik can come to the rescue again (like they did with my first upholstering attempt!) with this video tutorial on how to make a no-sew crib skirt. Which is handy, seeing as I don't have a sewing machine of my own.

But the first step is to pick out a fabric. Something fun, but not too infantile. Cute, but not overwhelming. Colourful, but that won't compete with this masterpiece of Disney-esque saturation:

...So the following patterns (all, incidentally, in a colour palate dubbed "cinnamon") are the top three contenders. Any thoughts? I really need to decide which one deserves the Awesome Opossum Seal of Approval.

Contender #1: Alderley

Contender #2: Cedar

Contender #3: Maple

My current feeling, after having consulted The Husband last night (his judgement in matters of design is not to be sniffed at!) is that while Cedar would look great in a pillow or some other smallish accent, its thick, mid-century leaf outlines in that mocha colour will be too distracting as a crib skirt. Like a hyperactive four-year-old in the corner throwing toys in a desperate plea for attention. So, much as I love it, I think we're really between Maple and Alderley. Any thoughts? Suggestions? Glaring silences imploring me to make my own decision and leave you out of it? I'll take any of the above, though the first two are certainly more helpful.

Once I pick something out, I'll place an order and start gathering supplies in earnest. In the meantime, I need to go on a Google Image Search binge to find some good ideas on how to carve our pumpkin. Since we were lame last year and didn't get a pumpkin, and were really lame the year before and let our pumpkins rot uncarved, this is the first year we'll have a jack o'lantern of our very own. It requires charm. It requires finesse. It requires a sufficiently Halloween-like blend of nerdy appeal and horror. Pun intended, I have my work cut out for me. (Giggle-snort.)

Everyone Needs an Enabler

There is officially (at least, according to the medical professionals I've seen) one week left on the countdown to Baby D's arrival. My only problem with the near-constant Braxton-Hicks contractions of the last day or two is...well, that they're Braxton-Hicks and not demonstrably The Real Thing. The Husband, apparently, came about 11 days late, and I know from asking my own mom that I was a week late, myself.

So as I wait for either labour to start itself (please, dear Lord!) or for the midwives and doctors to issue my baby an eviction notice, I've been getting increasingly impatient. My hospital bag is packed. The stroller handle has been fixed. The car got cleaned inside and out. The car seat is officially and irrevocably installed. Thank You cards for baby shower presents have all been written. I've attended my antenatal class and learned all about birthing positions, breathing through contractions, and the rest of the general indignity that surrounds the miracle of life. I've even come to something of a stopping point with all of my DIY projects.

I painted the nursery, hung pictures, hung curtains, tidied shelves, assembled a chair, assembled the crib, washed all the tiny baby clothes I found it useful to wash...I'm currently on hiatus from baby-prep. But then...as I vent my impatience to the world...a wonderful suggestion to pass the time comes along...

Another DIY project!? I could sew a crib skirt to hide any under-crib storage. I could make a fun mobile to hang over the baby's crib (Alexander Calder, anyone?). I could install crown moulding that would let me paint the ceiling a fun colour so that the moulding pops, creating fun architectural interest in the room! I could put doors on the shelving! I could paint the inside of the shelf framing so it makes a fun contrast to the white outside and shelves! The possibilities are endless.

Ladies and gentlemen: my own mother is now my DIY enabler...and I get to have her stay with me for two whole weeks next month! Just think of the wreaths and quilts and wall art I could make (or convince her to make with me, since my sewing skills are pretty crap).

Also, another great Lorelei Gilmore-enabler moment? My mom just spelled it labour...with the extraneous British ou, like in colour or candour. I've been doing this for years - since high school, in fact, when I used it to great effect in typing up some notes for the lovely Ryan Jackson. Said Anglicized spelling not only started a very fun mock argument in the hallway after class, but prompted Jackson to give me a copy of the brilliant Lynn Truss's Eats, Shoots and Leaves. I have an unhealthy, nerdish love for that book.

First, she enables my DIY obsession. Then, she enables my Anglophile tendency to spell everything the way the Husband always learned to. How awesome is my mom? (Correct answer: very.)

...Here's a Shovel.

I know I still have just over a week left to go until my due date, but I'm getting desperate. I'm getting up about 4 times a night now and I feel like I should be on a first-name basis with my bathroom as much quality time as we spend together alone in the dark at 3 in the morning. I now know when the BP garage next to our apartment building shuts off the light in its sign (usually around 12am, in case you were wondering).

I resorted to the entirely unrealistic practice of trying to bribe my unborn child to come out by buying him/her a cute fuzzy blanket. So far, the kid hasn't gone for it. I even washed the blanket as soon as I got it home, so it would be all prepared to go in my hospital bag for whenever this baby decides to put in an appearance. I'm all about being rational - I'm a rational person - but the old wives' tales and superstitions are about to come out with a vengeance. Spicy foods? Check. Though they make my acid reflux worse, so I'll try to avoid them too soon before I hit the hay in the evening. Bouncing up and down? Check. Actually, I'm surprised I can still bounce! I even ran for a while on the treadmill at the gym the other day. Clearly, though, if exercise and running are going to bring this baby around to my way of thinking, I have to take truly drastic measures. Witness, if you will...

I confess, not the best video I've seen, but it gets the story out. This post on The Daily What has a much better narration of the whole event.

So I guess I've discovered what I need to do. Anyone up for a quick 26.2-mile jaunt around the Blackwater Valley trails? ...I didn't think so. (Good thing, too, because with a physiotherapy appointment on Monday, I don't think I'm up for anything like that, either.)

Of course, I actually put no stock in the idea that spicy foods, or castor oil, or sex (though, according to the midwife, it apparently has to be good sex!), or bouncing up and down, or trendy herbs will bring about labour. If the baby is ready to come and my body is ready to push it out, then it'll happen. There's no real use trying to speed things along until that point...especially since no one's really sure what exactly causes labour to start spontaneously in the first place. So short of pretending to be Denzel Washington in my own version of John Q and holding the L&D midwives hostage until they agree to take the baby out of me, I'm out of feasible ideas. Sweet-talking, whining, poking, and bribing the baby haven't helped...neither, apparently, have all the contractions that like to make frequent and annoying visits like that acquaintance who's not really your friend that you always run into at parties, but you're too embarrassed and polite to say that you find them off-putting, socially awkward, and lacking in the finer points of personal hygiene.

My last-ditch plan is to wait it all out with the world's most patently false veneer of patience, and then - once baby truly tries my nerves and is 4 days late - I'll go to the movies again and see Anonymous and stubbornly sit through the whole movie, defying my offspring to display enough urgency in his/her arrival to oust me from the cinema before the end of the film. Go on, Baby...I dare you.

Perfect Pumpkin Picking Practise

On Saturday, we decided to continue making use of The Lull and embark on an expedition to fully embrace the return of decent autumnal weather. We went pumpkin picking!

We hadn't been out to pick pumpkins since my first autumn back in the country. We were both still living in London at the time and two recently-married friends convinced us to come along with them to a Pick Your Own (fill in name of fruit/veg here) farm out in northern Surrey. We went, we picked two pumpkins...and then shamefully never carved them. They sat in the kitchen of the boys' house in Wimbledon for a week or two. With all of the best intentions, we even scoped out various carving patterns and methods online, intent to have a fun, messy, crafty evening together gutting and massacring some produce. Somehow or other, those plans never came to fruition, and so - fun though the trip was - our pumpkins were something of a waste in the end. Not this time!

After running a few errands in the morning, we packed up a lunch and set off for Garsons in Esher. (It was only the result of some tenacious Google searching that I even found the name of the place again.) The sky was a bit overcast, but there was a gentle breeze, and the air was crisp and cool: it was perfect weather to go out and find a pumpkin! It was the first time in the season that I've had to break out my gloves and scarf. I feel the need to strike up a cheesy swing orchestra and start singing..."It's the most wonderful time of the year..."

We pulled the car over by a nice village green just in front of the farm and took the time to have a nice lunch with the windows cracked and a fresh breeze blowing through. The scene was really quaint and adorable in a way that actually didn't make you want to induce vomiting or kick a puppy to restore balance to the universe. Plus, all the leaves on the trees were falling ("...to the sound of the breezes that blow." Sorry. Moondance moment over.) and changing colours, which is always something that I'm happy to stare at. Raking dead leaves and shovelling snow are two activities I don't think I'll ever get tired of. ...Unless I have an aneurysm and move somewhere like Quebec or Toronto or Glasgow.

Thankfully, this year we went a bit earlier in the season than on our last visit, so there were still fields full of perfectly proportioned pumpkins just waiting for us to come and take them home.

We wandered around and began our search. Nothing too big, since we don't want the carving to take ages to complete, but nothing too small that restricts our creative outlet. I need an ideally-scaled vegetable to act as the canvas for my quirky and insane genius. Needless to say, we ended up with a group of similarly-sized pumpkins, all lined up like finalists in a Miss America pageant. Their respective merits were considered and weighed against our personal preference and prospective carving needs...then we took some fun pictures.

In the end, of seven highly respectable contenders, this little beauty was the winner:

We wrapped it up in a plastic bag, paid a tiny fee to remove it from the premises, and then left the Pick Your Own fields. We did not, however, leave the Garsons farm at this point. Oh no. Now, it was on to the shop, because within the four walls of this shop is a colour-coordinated wonderland of Christmas ornaments and decorations that simply could not be missed. Indeed, this was half of my reasoning for taking the trip out to Esher in the first place. But, for now, I'll refrain from waxing eloquent on the wonders of shopping for Christmas ornaments...we're not quite at that point in the season yet. Presently, it is still time to savour the smell of wood-burning fires, kick the dead leaves across parking lots, and revel in the glory of a season that encourages you to decorate your home with tiny mutant gourds. It's autumn, people!

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Master of Understatement

Having gone to see Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy last night, I have to give it a full five stars, and two thumbs up, and all the usual movie-rating jargon to emphasize how good something was. I'd love to have my own system for something like that. I'm sure, though, that it would just end up sounding like I'd botched the 12 Days of Christmas song and forgot that it was "10 lords a'leaping" or "8 maids a'milking". Anyway, if I did have a fun system, I would give it 10/10 lords a'leaping...or whatever sounds cooler than that.

In the book, le Carre's plot starts at a boys' school where a chubby little loner watches out of the window as a new teacher pulls up in his car and towing trailer. (I confess, I know this only because I've listened to the first chapter of the audiobook...I really need to finish it now I've seen the movie.) The movie, by contrast, starts with a clandestine, off-the-books mission to Budapest to suss out a Hungarian general who wants to defect. I have to say, I like that they save the school scene for later since it creates quite a bit more suspense with one of the characters.

The cast for this movie is ah-mazing! Ciaran Hinds, Toby Jones, Tom Hardy, Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, John Hurt, Mark Strong, and Benedict Cumberbatch make up the main action and the impressive backbone of talent in the picture. Though they're all brilliant actors generally (and John Hurt will always be Mr. Ollivander to me), here are the bits that stood out most to my mind:

• The last time I saw Tom Hardy was as the devilishly sarcastic forger in Inception. He gets to play a character with so much more depth here in Tinker, Tailor and he does it all the justice it deserves. I won't give anything away, but Hardy plays a thuggish intelligence agent with a brilliantly-executed soft side. His one really emotional scene comes at the end of a flashback (with which the movie is replete) and doesn't feel in the least like a gratuitous attempt to humanize his character: it just fits brilliantly.
• Mark Strong finally plays a character with more than two dimensions! Don't get me wrong, Guy Ritchie's mockney Victorian escapade with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law was a fun time, but I loved seeing that Mark Strong can be more than your stereotypical snaggle-toothed baddie. There's an impressive degree of fortitude and complexity in his character that really sees its understated apex at the film's end. Plus, it's just nice to see him in a roll where he's not the villain for a change.
• Benedict Cumberbatch's character, Peter Guillam, is great. He, too, gets one particular scene of significance for character development and background and in the true fashion of this particular spy thriller, the whole thing is executed with an understated elegance that you can't help but appreciate. Well, unless you're incredibly thick and don't understand what just happened. If you've seen the movie, you know exactly what scene I'm talking about. If you haven't seen it, all I have to say is that it involves the need for Guillam to protect himself by making a difficult choice to "tidy things up".

So, in case you haven't noticed, the magic word for Tinker, Tailor is understatement. There's never a point in the movie where you're hit over the head with anything. I can see where that might get annoying: it's definitely a film that asks you to do a lot of thinking and close following of the nuances of the plot, but I think it rewards you sufficiently for the effort it asks. My only complaint? They could have made some of the flashbacks a bit more apparent sooner in the scene. Otherwise, I really have nothing bad to say about it. The 70s aesthetic was brilliantly done. Though the whole picture was so saturated with it that you could never mistake the time period for anything other than what it was, it wasn't as if they were blaring an ear-grating disco soundtrack or showing billboards or making unnecessary references to current pop-culture or politics.

So; Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy...a must-see for anyone willing to have a good think through a spy thriller that - for once - doesn't rely on insanely improbable technology, unrealistic explosions, or oversexed femmes fetale to drive the plot along.

Next movies on my Need to See list? The Help and Anonymous. The latter is a Shakespearean thriller about the true identity of the Bard - again with a stellar cast. And, I have to say, I have a soft spot in my heart for anything with Derek Jacobi in it. After all, we did used to be neighbours! (True story!)

Radio Silence

I'm apathetic. After a whole week with no blog posts, I wonder just where my motivation has gone. I haven't done much this week. On the bright side, though, that's actually a good thing to some extent. Because the Husband's business course is finally done and dusted, we can have - gasp! - evenings together! Evenings that don't involve me reading or trolling Pinterest in the bedroom while he sits on the computer in the living room writing paper after paper. Last night, we sat in bed and watched TV. Tonight, we're off to the cinema for a viewing of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Retro spy drama, here we come!

Basically, we're enjoying the lull. The blessed, beautiful lull. The time between the end of Henley Business School work and the start of our lives as parents to an outside baby. That precious and indeterminate amount of time where our obligations are at their lowest. Where we can go to the cinema, or spend a day out at this cute farm in Surrey (our plan for Saturday) without worrying about feedings or diaper bags or studying financial projections and process systems diagrams. My friends: welcome to The Lull. Embrace The Lull. (Wondering how many more times I can say that before it stops sounding like a word? Me too...)

The other highlight this week was a lovely surprise baby shower thrown by my girls in Young Women's. Apparently, the last baby shower thrown for a girl at church was given the final judgement of being boring by all the teenage girls. They decided, therefore, to take matters into their own hands so that my baby shower wouldn't be boring. And they had a pretty impressive turn out! Though I have to say, it was an interesting task trying to drive without wrecking the three-tiered cake made of disposable diapers and other assorted baby things.

Another fun baby-related experience? Our antenatal class. It was an all-day affair at the children's centre across the street. Whoever thought that sticking 10 heavily pregnant women and their husbands (and in one case, the soon-to-be-grandmother) in a poorly ventilated room on a hot day was a good idea should give serious consideration to the idea of getting a job as a medieval torture artist. Seriously.

It was nice to hear some of the information on labour and the facilities in our hospital directly from the source, but generally, all the medical stuff was an overview for us. Not to mention the poorly delivered list of Old Wives' Tales about how to jump start labour. Eating spicy food? Raspberry Leaf Tea? Good sex? (As if I'd condone any other kind!) And nowhere in that whole discussion was the sensible advice that if your body and your baby aren't ready to go into labour, there's pretty much nothing you can do short of an actual medical induction in a hospital! Thank you, NHS, for lazily promoting pseudo-science. Of the three examples I listed, only the sex would come close to being effective anyway because of the release of chemicals like oxytocin and prostaglandins. And even then, those occur naturally in far too low of a dose to really kick start anything that wasn't starting itself anyway! Though I do have to thank the antenatal class for my new-found possession of an exercise ball (both to exercise with and to lean on when I'm wildly uncomfortable during contractions) and some pretty awesome massage techniques. I think even when I'm not pushing out a baby those back massages will feel pretty darn good.

So, as we round the corner into 38 weeks of pregnancy, I will do my utmost to enjoy The Lull. That said, I'm getting pretty impatient to actually have a baby I can hold and talk to and put into all the cute clothes we've been given. (Especially the super cute ducky pyjamas from my mom!)