I love this whole book to bits (by Kaz Cooke), but have been enjoying the relevance of the 40th week chapter, and in particular the 'diary' of the character she uses throughout the book.
I don't intend to break any publishing laws or anything, but thought it might cheer some of you ladies up and / or give you a bit of a giggle if I just posted that section
Enjoy !
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Diary
I'm due. And I am nothing but a limbo-living, dimply-arsed, stoned giantess. When I go to see Dr Herb the women in the waiting room who are only a couple of months pregnant look at me with very contemplative expressions: 'Surely I couldn't get THAT big', I hear them saying in their innermost thoughts.
Des has suggested we change the name of the baby to Godot, and I am like a cat waiting to have kittens, prowling around the house looking for a good cupboard to give birth in - or tidy up. I'm finding it harder to drink Beck's herbal uterine tonic concoction - I'm just sick of it, but I persevere because she says I have good uterine tone, which I am immensely proud of, it being the only part of my body which HAS ANY TONE.
Obsessed with the idea of labour. Someone reminds me of Kathy Lette's description of a post-caesarean vagina as 'honeymoon fresh'. If I didn't laugh I'd sob m'self silly. It's also becoming clear to me how many pregnant women worry about pooing during labour. I'm just surprised your lungs don't come out your bum considering all the pressure.
Have left a message on the answering machine saying nothing's happened yet. People ringing and asking all the time. All the ones who are already mothers say, 'Good luck', 'Take the drugs' and 'You're not going to try and have a natural birth are you?'.
Uncle Stan turns up on the doorstep dressed like a Hollywood B-movie costume designer's idea of a part-time pimp: opaque, yellow-lensed, concave wrap-around sunglasses, ankle length leather jacket, high-heeled boots and grey beard. I try not to stare. Aurelia is always waiting in the car, usually taking advantage of the mirror on the inside of the passenger sun visor.
He hands me a bunch of organic chokoes and remarks casually that he and Aurelia are going on holiday next week to a commune. 'So', I venture, 'you won't be here when the baby's born?' 'Leave a message on the answering machine!' he cries gaily as he heads for the gate. Family support. What would you do without it? Get along all right, is my guess.
My dream birth: I am lying on a sexy, dusky pink satin-quilted four-poster bed reading a magazine full of photos of gorgeous clothes I could afford that would look quite nice on me (I
said) it was a dream) when a man in a leopard skin suit comes past with a cocktail trolley on wheels full of excellent cakes, bottles of attractively coloured alcohol, an icebucket and some syringes.
'Martini?' he inquires politely. 'Or would modom care for an epidural?' Just at that moment a perfectly charming bab pops out of my vagina. 'Ow,' I remark, absent-mindedly. 'Why, thank you, I'll take a gin and lime. And a small coostrum for my new young friend.'
Just in case this doesn't happen, Dr Herb has scheduled me to go into the maternity hospital next Monday at 5pm to have my cervix annointed with a prostaglandin that mimics the one in the body that basically says, 'Lady, start your engines for labour'. I have to stay in hospital, and they might put some more in the next morning. Then I should be able to start on my own without the oxytocin drip, although in some cases the membranes have to be broken by the doctor if the waters don't break by themselves. This is scary.
Had a problem sleeping last night, thinking about bringing a baby home, and caesarean, and pain...
Beck's given me acupuncture twice to try and move the baby along a bit, and I've taken some tiny homeopathic pills. The baby finally 'engages' (goes into firing positiong) after two days of this.
So TIRED. Some anxiety attacks, but mostly sort of numb. Everyone is ringing up saying, 'Has anything happened?'
"NO !!!!!!!!!!!"
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Up The Duff - Week 40
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