- 35 weeks, 3 days
- Baby boy
- Name TBC
- Mood of significant other : (I decided to ask Robyn directly. She is currently fully fed and watered, watching Dexter on her yoga ball in her new pyjamas, so I am quietly optimistic about the response). Her answer : ‘Tired, sore and nervous. Now leave me alone and stop writing about me on your blog. I want chocolate cake. Do we have chocolate cake? Don’t write that! (cries). Now get me chocolate cake’.
Braxton Hicks, a bodily function that is designed purely to panic and instil categorical fear into first time Dad’s on a daily basis. Braxton Hicks contractions are intermittent uterine contractions that start in early pregnancy to prepare the body for actual labour, and they’re named after John Braxton Hicks (the weird looking dude above) an English doctor who first described them in 1872. Very much like his obscene Amish beard and ungraceful adolescent balding, they please no one and only cause discomfort and frantic dismay.
Last weekend we decided to visit the zoo. It was great, right up until Robyn decided to nearly give birth while I fed a Giraffe. I was forced into a morale dilemma, I didn’t know what to do. Robyn clearly needed my aid and reassurance, but I’d literally just bought a big bag of peanuts to feed the Giraffes and I was really, really enjoying myself. I eventually accepted my fate and helped the poor bugger out. By help, I refer to rubbing her back while frantically repeating ‘are you ok? are you ok?’ until she inevitably screamed at me to shut the fuck up. The Zookeepers however will have been delighted with the fiasco, as Robyn’s wild grunts mirrored some sort of mating call, sending a pen of Egyptian Camels into a rampant sexual frenzy.
As we near ever closer to the big day it’s hard to determine what is a ‘false alarm’ and actual full blown labour, especially as it’s our first time. I spend the majority of my day googling ’35 weeks pregnant, signs of labour’, which is about as reassuring as a Boris Johnson post BREXIT speech. I suppose we’ll know when the time comes, as cliché’ as it may be. In preparation, I decided to throw an obligatory ‘baby shower’ here in Spain. Now for the red blooded, axe wielding, beard sporting macho man, one would deem it unimaginable for him to organise a successful baby shower for all to enjoy. Luckily, I enjoy canapés, fondant and George Michael classics so the day was a hit.
I was rather proud with myself for how the day panned out, and myself and Robyn are really thankful for the incredible turn out and all of the gifts. The little man now has enough pairs of socks now to survive a Serbian winter, and it’ll truly be a strategic effort to show him off in all of the new clothes bought for him before he sprouts into a weird gangly teenager. The highlight of the day was when my Mum became ‘a tad too ‘merry’ and needed to be sent home like a naughty teenager. While I was stood waiting for the taxi, my Dad (whom was also a tad merry) declared, and I quote, ‘Jacqui, we cant go home yet, I’m on fire tonight!’ I do hope this self confidence and tenacity is passed on through the generations to our little boy, its must be reassuring.
I’d like to think we’re now more or less prepared, which is naïve to say the least. So many new Mother’s and Father’s I speak to say exactly the same thing (with sleep deprived eyes, a shoulder full of baby spew and some sort of orange puree matted in their hair), ‘parenthood is the greatest ever feeling’. So bring on the next eighteen plus years, I’m sure it’ll be interesting.
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