Our first football ‘lesson’.

Hubs and I have a tendency towards couch potatoism. It’s not conscious it’s just we’re always tired and we like watching telly. We don’t, however, want to pass our potato ways onto the boy.

I want him to get involved in activities he’ll actually enjoy but I can tell you now I’m not going to be one of those parents who takes her kid to EVERYTHING. If the Bald Kitten wants to try something so be it. But I’m not signing up to everything just so I can have a pissing contest with other mums.

You see them boasting about all the groups little Tarquin goes to, how he’s so busy, how they go straight from school to karate, then an hour in the pool, not forgetting the private tutoring in the evening. Saturday morning is Rugby training, more swimming, photography club. Sunday morning football practice etc, etc, ETC!!

When does little Tarquin get to do his homework or play with friends? Would you need the tutor if you didn’t insist on exhausting the poor thing week in, week out?

Ask yourself: am I signing them up for this or for me?

Anyway, I digress. First football ‘lesson’. Hubs told the Bald Kitten he was going to play football. So that’s all I heard. All morning.

‘We play football today Mummy?’

‘Are we going to football?’

‘I’m playing football today Mummy’

‘Shall we go into the garden to play football?’

And whilst we were driving to the venue and I got a bit lost: ‘Mummy, are we going to play football today?’

When we finally found the venue (a smidge late) we hurried to the building. Well, I hurried until I heard a little voice say ‘Slow down Mummy you’re going too fast!’

The session was ‘unstructured’. It was a big room with 3 pop up goals, pop up tunnels and about 45 footballs. (I counted them). The man running the session was zipping around all over the place interacting with all the children.

The Bald Kitten was off! There were balls flying all over the place. He loved it! He was kicking balls all over the place. In his enthusiasm I did get an elbow to the nose and a football thrown in my face. Not quite sure he’s premiership material yet but he enjoyed himself and that’s what matters.

We did have a bit of a strop when the balls were put away, accompanied by a sulky declaration that he didn’t like football. He soon cheered up, and is looking forward to next week!

In other news:

I have had a lovely chat with the breastfeeding team. Feeling much better equipped to start boobie feeding.

Tried to have a relaxing bath today, was joined by the Bald Kitten who as soon as he was stood in the bath had a great big wee.

To make pregnancy EVEN MORE fun, I think I’m getting tonsillitis.

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36 weeks pregnant and thinking all things boob.

Four weeks until B-day! I’ve been to see the midwife this morning. Apparently I’ve put on 4kg since the beginning of my pregnancy. That meant sod all to me so I used a converter and have put on just over half a stone. This is definitely less than last time. But last time I had a penchant for fast food. (And I didn’t feel sick for 17 plus sodding weeks.)

Blood pressure is fine, size of tum fine so basically we’re just waiting. Baby is not yet engaged but pointing the right way and tomorrow the Feeding Team are coming to visit me.

The Feeding Team promote breastfeeding and they’ll give me some tips on how to get started and answer any questions. I’m hoping they have a ‘there’s no such thing as a silly question’ policy.

I didn’t breastfeed the Bald Kitten. I had decided to try and not put pressure on myself. For lots of reasons it’s not something I continued with. This time round I am putting the pressure on. I want this, and seeing as when Little Pea is born my uterus will be closed for business, this is the only chance I have to experience this. I can’t help but remember the toe curling agony I felt last time and being confused by the conflicting advice:

‘breastfeeding should NEVER hurt’

Vs

‘There may be some pain during the initial latch’

I remember sobbing behind the curtain every time he latched on (or sort of but not quite latched on) and starting to cry every time he did thinking ‘please god not again, don’t hurt me again’. And I also remember beginning to resent him. The new postpartum mother is a hormonal one and I actually believed he was hurting me on purpose because he didn’t like me. It seems to me that by a hugely ironic twist of fate that just after having a baby is not a time to start breastfeeding! Or at least not for me.

I remember that sodding yellow breastfeeding guide I kept getting given every time I asked for help, I could recite it word for sodding word but couldn’t seem to get the hang of feeding.

Except I think that maybe I did have it. But what I didn’t get was honesty. All I needed to be told was ‘This might feel a bit shit for a bit, but stick with it. It’s normal for babies to want to be on the boob very frequently, you won’t be like a fully fledged dairy cow for a few weeks. Your baby is not starving.’

I’m not blaming anyone ultimately I made the choice to bottle feed. (And I have absolutely no regrets about that.) I thought I could just pump milk from day one and put boobie milk in a bottle. (It is not recommended to pump straight away. Again something I wish I knew.) But in it’s admirable mission to get more women breastfeeding, it seems to me NHS staff are very cautious about what they do and don’t say. Like they’re scared they’ll put us off. Being told it’s shit but it will get better was what I needed to hear, but I imagine it wasn’t on the list of stuff they could say, should it look like they’re not promoting it. I’m not saying everyone struggles, I can’t speak for all women. My bestie took to it like a milky duck to a dairy pond!

What I have done to encourage le boobie feeding this time round is not got any formula, perfect prep machine or bottles. (Will still has some for his bedtime milk) I’ve got nothing to fall back on. I know that it means hubs can’t help with night feeds (he did pretty much ALL the night feeds on paternity leave so I could sleep) but, my anxiety has me wanting to control everything so actually even though I probably won’t enjoy them, I need to be doing the feeds.

I’ve also asked hubs if we can go to a coffee shop when he’s on paternity leave so I can experience feeding in public with someone there. To be honest that’s one of my biggest fears. Public feeding but I’ll be buggered if we’re staying in all the time. There is also the financial side. Formula is expensive! Boobs are free, mine used to get drinks paid for, now they’ll be providing them!

In other news:

On Monday the Mothership and I will be getting the last bits for my hospital bag. Baby’s is sorted.

I’m trying to find good snacks for labour, I’d completely forgot about including them and apparently a quarter pounder with cheese meal, is NOT classed as an appropriate snack.

Word on the street is the baby has found the bike it’s getting for big brother…

The big soft play fail of 2019.

Well, here we are 8 days into the new year and we’ve has our first incident.

I’ve been meaning to see the bestie for a while so we decided soft play would be the place to do it. Which actually means we have lots of half conversations and mid sentence stops in order to ensure the kids don’t do themselves a mischief. I have to say bestie was an absolute trooper as there were many parts of soft play that I simply didn’t fit into/through. So she was running around after two.

The Bald kitten decided he wanted to play in the more grown up side. So I was waddling around after him, and we found a big slide! Down we went. It was lots of fun and had bumps in it. ‘Let’s do it again!’ The Bald Kitten cried in excitement. So off we trotted. But the thing about soft play, especially large ones, is that they are labyrinths! So when we got to the top, we didn’t find the big slide with the bumps in it. We found a curly tube slide. Helicopter mum whispered in my ear ‘Don’t let him go down that!’ The part of me that is desperate to be less helicoptery asked the Bald Kitten, ‘Do you want to go down that slide?’

‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!’

I was torn, should I go down with him? But I’m practically 9 months pregnant, I can’t put him on my lap, what if I bump tummy. So I let him go.

Mistake.

It was hard to see from the outside just how steep and twisty the silde actually was. But as soon as The boy pushed himself off, he regretted it. I heard the squeaking of his hands on the plastic as he tried to stop himself. I heard a bump and screaming. He was bloody terrified. I’m calling down the tube ‘keep sliding darling!’ Thinking if he’s stopped halfway down how the fuck am I going to get him out. I felt panicked. He was balling and calling for me. And I’m lost at the top of a fucking soft play maze. Luckily, bestie just happened to be in the perfect place at the perfect time. At the bottom of the twisty bastard. She scooped up the boy and cuddled him whilst he wailed for me. I yelled down the slide ‘Is he out Katy?!’

‘He’s out!’

I flew round to get to him with some hefty kicks from Little Pea, it think he/she was saying ‘You better not do anything like this to me when I’m out you neglectful cow!’

I got to the boy and we had cuddles and reassurance that he did not have to go down that slide again. I brought him some Quavers so he could have a snack and calm down. It was whilst I was paying I noticed the big red mark on his head. It seems he had a bump on the noggin on the way down.

The staff fetched an ice pack and I filled in an accident form. He sat having his crispy cheesy snack whilst I held the large blue ice pack to his head. Definitely feeling judged.

Definitely.

I think we’re going to have a nice bruise as a souvenir. A bad mum badge, if you like. And I’m thinking maybe helicoptering is the way forward.

In other news:

I had Braxton Hicks last night. I remembered how labour is like this only much, much more painful and started regretting some life choices.

I need to get an undated birth playlist but this means using iTunes. My nemisis.

I think it’s high time Daddy had the soft play experience.

35 weeks.

Well today I am officially 35 weeks! I would like to be writing this after a good night’s sleep but apparently that’s not possible at the moment so I’m grumpy and fidgety and awake. I’ve been laying in bed getting more and more pissed off about the fact I am not unconscious so have come downstairs where I am just as pissed off.

Today has been productive. I’ve made some freezer dinners ready for when me and hubs are so tired we can’t tell our arse from our elbow, I’ve washed approximately 2 tonnes of neutral 0-3 months baby clothes and picked the outfits for baby to pack in the hospital bag. I’ve got NOTHING for me in there but baby has some outfits. No nappies. But clothes. It’s dawning on me despite doing this once before I’ve got no idea what to put in.

I’ve also sorted the Kallax units in the living room and the bald kitten’s bedroom to make room for the mountain of new toys he got for Xmas.

I’ve cleaned the bathroom too.

You’d think I’d be able to sleep. Yet here we are. Awake.

You may remember a few weeks ago I mentioned my iron was low. I had a call from the Drs today to say I’ve been prescribed iron tablets so I’m guessing those levels haven’t gone up. Like an absolute twat I googled ‘low iron in pregnancy’ and got a horror show of results; early baby, low birth weight and problems throughout childhood were the ones that stick in my mind the most. But rationally I’m sure that was for extended anaemia so I need to put it to the back of my mind. If there’s something I need to know I’ll probably get a call from the midwife tomorrow. I imagine I’ll have to have ANOTHER blood test. I really should get over my needle phobia.

I’m not looking forward to iron supplements as I may have mentioned before pregnancy is the time my haemorrhoids like to shine and the absolute LAST thing I need is harder poo. This was an issue after having the Bald Kitten, I needed iron because of blood-loss so was also give laxatives and stool softener so I didn’t do any more damage to my poor war torn downstairs. Talk about a lot to look forward to.

So the third trimester is definitely the longest. I’m tired, grumpy, huge and trying to be super organised. A skill that has never come naturally to me. And although inside I’m doing a little dance because I’m telling myself I’ve got five weeks left it could easily be 7. The Bald Kitten was in no hurry to be out and Little Pea has been rather a pain in the arse throughout this pregnancy so I’m not expecting much to happen on my due date. Which is good as I’ve booked a nail appointment.

In other news:

I found Captain’s favourite pink mousey today. He’s been acting like a kitten chasing it round, bashing into Marms as he’s rolling around on the floor killing it and stealth attacking the shit out of it.

Little Pea’s bum is really poking out of my tummy. I can’t wait to meet that little bum.

My ginormo knickers are now tight. Bad times.

My Birth Plan.

I few nights ago hubs and I settled down with a biro and an NHS birth plan template.

I was a little reluctant to bother as NOTHING went to plan last time. The birthing pool with the twinkly lights, the skin to skin, the no epidural. All went to shit.

Due to reduced movements, the birthing pool with the twinkly lights was off limits, hubs had the skin to skin whilst I got stitched up, and I had to have an epidural to get stitched up. And I was induced so my daydreams about waking hubs in the early hours and telling him baby was on the way wasn’t a thing either.

As my water birth is a no and so is the twinkly light birthing suit, labour ward is the way forward, I’m hoping to labour in a pool, but there is only one on labour ward so if it’s being used, tough.

I suppose with having a child already I should really be accepting of the fact that things don’t go to plan. But part of the plan really got to me. It asked ‘Do you want your birthing partner/partners present of you have and episiotomy?’ And then there was a box for me to write my feelings about an episiotomy. I saw it and burst into tears. Whilst I am an emotional person, spontaneous blarting is unusual for me.

What do I think? I’d rather have a fucking hole in my head. That’s what I think. Now I know it’s better that tearing, more controlled etc. But the thought of someone holding a big pair of fucking scissors and telling me they’re going to cut my fanny is the actual stuff of nightmares for me. Nightmares. To the point I might request that they ask hubs for the green light because I think I’d simultaneously puke and run away is I get the slightest whiff of episiotomy scissors.

This sounds a tad dramatic, I’m aware of that. But I am genuinely frightened. When I tore with William, I didn’t know it was happening. I knew when they told me. The biggest fear of my first birth was having a poo half way through, for all to see.

That’s not my fear this time. It’s those bloody scissors. And the thing is I can plan as much as I want but I have absolutely no control over what happens, I don’t even know when it will happen!

So although I’m super excited to meet Little Pea, I’m nervous as hell about it!

In other news:

My bladder is now the size of a walnut and I am sick to death of trips to the loo.

My relaxing bath was interrupted by an excited bald kitten who insisted on joining me. To be fair we did have lots of fun with the bath toys.

Tomorrow the Christmas decorations go back up in the loft and all the baby stuff comes down!

Just. Let. Me. Sleep.

It’s currently 4.49 in the am and once again I am wide-a-sodding-wake.

I’m knackered, and I want to be unconscious but I’m not.

This is absolute bloody torture for me. I love sleep, I need sleep, I want sleep yet it’s proving more elusive than Nessy at the moment.

At 34+1 I potentially have six more weeks of this shit. 6 WEEKS. That can fuck right off. I’m praying baby gets to term at 37 weeks and thinks ‘bugger it, I’ll see what it’s like out there’, unlike it’s brother who hung in until he was encouraged out.

I feel guilty for wishing the short time I have left with just the Bald Kitten away but I can’t cope with this.

To add to the fun that is insomnia, when I lay down in bed my arse starts hurting. Ever had an achey bum after an intense gym session? Like after you’ve done A LOT of squats? It aches like that but in all honesty, I can’t remember the last time I did one squat let alone a gym session. Maybe my body is auto toning and as soon as baby is out I’ll have a flat stomach? I mean, it’s unlikely but I can dream. Oh look 5 am. I’m about three hours away from being awake for 24 hours. I’m going to be an absolute frigging delight today.

I did mention my sleep woes to le midwife and she said something about hormones and progesterone being abundant and probably why I’m ‘having trouble’. I think that everything inside my body is now actually progesterone. It’s the only logical explanation.

In other news:

Hubs and I have been to a magical wedding today, I thought dancing like a loon would guarantee sleep. Turns out I was wrong.

The baby we brought the Bald Kitten for Xmas has gone down an absolute storm. Fingers crossed he’s this nice to his sibling…

For whatever reason I am not friends with my pregnancy pillow. The cats on the other hand adore the large bed nest. Not together, it’s something else to have a turf war over.

A Bump Chronicles Guide to handbag essentials.

I’ve always found those articles in magazines about what our favourite ‘slebs’ are wearing/smothering on their face/have in their fridge, fascinating. And insightful. So I’m providing my own.

What should you be carrying on your handbag in your third trimester?

1. Pregnancy notes. You never really know when you’re going to go, you know? So keep those notes with you at all times.

2. Water. You’ve got a whole extra pint of blood in your body and that needs extra water. THE LAST thing you want is to be woken up with cramp. Then try not to murder your husband who, despite the fact you are clutching the offending leg whilst writhing around in pain (which in itself is an achievement with a giant belly) ASKS YOU WHICH SODDING LEG HURTS!!

3. Loyalty card for your preferred coffee house. I know caffeine is out, but so it booze, pate, and everything else fun. So have that (caffeine free) double tall extra syrup, extra cream extra sauce and chocolate sprinkles concoction. You’ve not seen your feet in weeks anyway so bugger the calories.

4. A notebook. Baby brain will be at its peek now, so you’ll need to more things down. Appointments, why you’ve come to the shops, where you parked the car, the names of your kids etc…

5. ‘Roid cream. As a heavily pregnant woman, your bum might be resembling a vineyard. Keep those grapes at bay on the go! But make sure they’re suitable for pregnancy. And secure it in a zipped pocket of your bag. You don’t want ‘roid cream rolling around at the till in Tesco for all to see.

6. Dried fruit. Nothing disrupts the system like growing a human. There is a study that suggests if you eat a couple of dates every day it can prevent tears during labour. It’s utter bollocks (3B tear here) but will help keep you ‘regular’.

7. Calming essential oils. You’re at the stage where you get a lot of ‘you’re about to pop!’, ‘you’re huge’, ‘sure it’s not twins?’ Etc. As punching people is not socially acceptable, and blocking out ‘stupid’ with vodka isn’t an option, you’ll need some oils to keep you calm and non violent. Wooo sarrr mama, wooo sarrr.

8. Indigestion relief. May I suggest AT LEAST a litre of the stuff. Pop it in a brown bag and swig from the bottle. It creates a real talking point.

9. Cooking foot spray. The third trimester is the cankle trimester. Foot spray won’t actually do anything, it just makes you feel like you’re doing something to assist your rapidly expanding ankles but spraying them just makes you feel like you’re doing something until you can put your feet up.

10. Tissues. You’re on an emotional rollercoaster. Be prepared.

There’s a lot more you could pop in your bag. I’m partial to a pop tart myself.

What was your third trimester handbag essential?