Baby Brain

After watching this cute video over on ExPress-O today, I've been having a bit of a think about second babies. You know, being pregnant with one and all. If you need any additional evidence that having more than one baby will temporarily turn you into a walking zombie, I suggest reading that evidence in better words than mine from my sister-in-law Rachel. But then, if you're fond of listening to me ramble, here we go...

The first time I was pregnant, I was a busy gal. I worked for the better part of the first 6 months, I moved house, I set up a nursery, I went to the gym and swam backstroke laps of the swimming pool. I celebrated my first anniversary up at Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire. Not only that, but I was reading all the baby and pregnancy literature I had. Not in a manic way, of course, just in that vaguely-interested, I'm-totally-not-obsessed-so-don't-look-at-me-funny sort of a way. I could tell you confidently how many weeks pregnant I was...and probably could have offered information on what fruit best approximated Ethan's size at the time. Because, what completely sane and normal passing acquaintance wouldn't want to know that my unborn son was the size of a cantaloupe that week?

This time around, the gym has been replaced with naps. And the occasional run around a playground, or walk into town with the buggy to pick up groceries and turn in that book about the Aye-Aye to the library again. But sweet lord, the naps! I can't bring myself to nap when E does, so I spend his naps eating my lunch in peace and watching things on Netflix. I need to have time where I'm conscious and have time to myself. So the naps come in the mornings, during the 9th viewing of Cars 2 or the 29th viewing of Thomas the Tank Engine in Hero of the Rails.

Watch ALL the Netflix!!!

I always need an extra moment to think when people ask, 'How long do you have left?' A question, frankly, I'm getting sick of. Because here's the thing: I love having babies...I can even stand labour. But I hate being pregnant. It's rotten and no-good. I'm tired, huge, swollen, retaining water like a sponge, and fighting to maneuver myself in the bed at night with a pillow wedged between my knees because - as my hips have kindly reminded me - they don't much like being pregnant either.

I can't tell you what fruit best approximates the size of this next little boy, but I can tell you how to wrestle a toddler onto a potty when you have a bowling ball strapped to your front. I may have to spend a moment in thought to tell you how many weeks pregnant I am, but I can rattle off 90% of the names of the Thomas the Tank Engine characters with no hesitation...in case you were wondering. (Thomas, Henry, Edward, Percy, Gordon, Bertie, Duck, Donald, Duncan, Emily, Lady, Diesel, Toby...)

Today, I finally took some time like I used to to watch those little feet make temporary hills on the surface of my belly. To say hello myself to my next lovely little boy, and to wonder again just how much he'll look like his big brother. I took a moment to really, honestly stop and smile at how sweet it is that Ethan will point to my bump and say, 'baby!' and then take his binky out of his mouth, hold it up to my belly button and say, 'share; share.' I made sure to enjoy the moment that made me laugh when, in the middle of watching QI, Ethan insists that I lift my shirt so that he can come - unprompted - to cuddle his baby brother and say, 'Awww! Soft, soft.' (More accurately this sounds like, 'hoff, hoff', but I know what he means and have no desire to go into a rendition of Hooked on a Feeling).

So even though the days seem as if they can't pass swiftly enough until the end of the year, I'll try to enjoy some of what is still to come before our second son makes his appearance. Because after that, things will definitely never be the same.