18 weeks – feels remarkably like all the other weeks so far.

My belly is a now constant reminder that I have a little pea swimming about in my uterus. I’m starting to feel the swimming which is very reassuring.

Speaking of swimming, Will started lessons four weeks ago. They’re all about getting the little one used to water and swim ready. There are songs and games and LOTS of splashing. It’s quite a workout for us as there is a lot of throwing the boy around. One of the exercises is to hold a novelty float and kick the water as an adult holds and guides you across the pool. Except Will doesn’t kick. He shouts ‘Weeeeeeeeeeee!’ with his feet sticking out of the water whilst hubs does all the work. It’s funny as hell but a tad frustrating when you’re repeating ‘kick, kick, kick!’ in a high pitched forced enthusiastic voice whilst he has a half an hour rest in the water. Hubs does the lesson with him as I’m not quite in a condition to throw a toddler about. I use the time to swim a few lengths. It’s nice to feel weightless for a bit and will be more so the more massive I get.

Today was busy, I had a lot to contend with; young teenaged girls showing off for the lanky teenaged lifeguard. Families treating the pool like it was a resort fun pool and throwing balls all over the sodding place, lanky teenaged lifeguard not noticing on account of the girls who seemed to be doing a lot of spinning? One of said girls climbed out of the pool in a teeny tiny bikini then slipped over, got up and did the over theatrical hysterical laughing and loudly telling her friend that she had just fallen over, to let anyone who might have seen it happen that she wasn’t completely mortified. I’m frankly quite jealous, if I’d have slipped over like that there’s no way in hell I could have got up so quickly.

We’ve visited friends this weekend and spent Saturday exploring Hampton Court Palace. The boy was fairly well behaved. We had a couple of public meltdowns, he loved stamping his feel in the large wooden floored rooms because it made a great sound. I do feel for the tourists with the audio guides as they had our little foghorn to contend with. The boy doesn’t see a rope barrier as something to keep behind and we uttered several frantic ‘Will, come here!’ Before we were told off or ejected. Although I have to say he senses the desperation in your voice and the more panicked you sound, the less likely he is to come back. Such fun!

We had a long drive home (got to love the M25) so swimming was a welcome stretch after being cooped up. We also had a mega tantrum in the services because we asked the bald kitten to put back a wheeled George Pig book, he didn’t want to put it back, he wanted us to cough up the £8 for it. When it became clear that would not be happening he screamed blue bloody murder. We were stared at. And across the car park as the tantrum continued which only stopped once he was strapped in his car seat. ‘Stopped crying now’ was the sentence for the next few miles.

Swimming has worn him out so definitely an early night. I can’t imagine hubs and I will be up more later. Tomorrow I have my whooping cough jab to look forward to.

In other news:

Marms, the majestic hunter that she is has just tried to catch a fly that’s on the other side of the window pane.

I nearly fainted today, turns out I’m a bit of a fainter in this pregnancy…

Holiday countdown has geared up a notch so the pressure is on to make sure the clothes are clean tomorrow instead of spending the day drinking tea and eating biscuits…

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Kids TV – pros and cons

The bald kitten is now taking more of an interest in kids tv. As much as it’s not something I want him watching ALL the time, it definitely has its benefits.

My darling son doesn’t nap in the day anymore. My golden time has gone, so ten minutes of distraction is my time to sit down with a hot drink. It’s also reassuring to know I’ve something to entertain him when I get a few weeks away from my due date. When I’m too massive to get down onto the floor to play with him and walking upstairs to the loo has the same effect as running a marathon. (Or at least how I imagine it feels to run a marathon…)

Popping on the tv means he’s distracted whilst I do the boring household things that need doing, cleaning the sink, bleaching the loo, stuff like I’d rather not do with a toddler around.

There are messages about friendship and kindness in kids tv programmes too. So he’s probably learning something…

The downside of kids tv:

It’s so frigging irritating.

Will’s current favourites are: Bing, Paw Patrol and Twirly Woos.

Twirly Woos- a family of weird round things that live in a boat and communicate through a series of annoying noises. There’s also some sort of pointy owl that I don’t understand the point of. They can sail a ship but concepts such and ‘up’, ‘down’ and ‘around’ are completely new to them.

Paw Patrol – a gang of anthropomorphic dogs with a pre-pubescent overlord. One of said dogs, Marshal, is adored by many but has zero coordination and causes many accidents. Not sure how he made the team. Don’t know why they trust him with a fire truck when he can’t walk into a lift without falling over. Evil mayor seems to persistently evade law enforcement. Evil mayor keeps cats fuelling outdated and inaccurate stereotype of cats being evil. Non evil mayor has unhealthy relationship with a chicken. So far none of the dogs have tried to eat said chicken.

Bing- a small rabbit that makes you fantasise about stabbing yourself in the eyes. Never. Stops. Whining. Lives with weird as yet unidentified creature called ‘Flop’. Flop is either a father figure or serial killer. As Bing is so bloody irritating I’ve been rooting for serial killer for some time now.

Of all the stuff he watches I detest Bing the most. I get he’s supposed to portray a toddler, but I have a toddler. I get listen to enough tantrums/moaning I don’t want a second dose from the tv…

In conclusion: kids tv has its place but: It. Will. Break. You.

If you need me I’ll be telling the boy that the TwirlyWoos, Paw Patrol and Bing are all sleeping so we can’t possibly watch them…

The plague strikes again.

The Warwick household has been hit with illness! Hubs has shingles and we suspect that William might now have chicken pox.

The boy could give the human torch a run for his money he’s that hot. Naturally getting him to take his medicine is a battle, heaven forbid he just take it and feel better.

Seeing my baby boy poorly does unusual things to me. I feel I’m now stuck in fight mode and will kill ANYONE if it helps my boy feel better. Even though he currently wants nothing to do with me, and is snuggled with his dad. This is also killing me, as I can’t shake ‘I’m the Mummy, I make him feel better’ mentality.

As for Bump, Bump is totally safe as I’ve had chicken pox before. Although the thoughtful foetus made he feel bloody awful yesterday so I don’t feel left out of the poorly club.

Usually possessing the organisational skills that allow me to get up on time(ish) and nothing more, I now have detailed records of temperature, food eaten, drinks drank, medicine taken and appearance at various points throughout the day. This will continue until he is back to full health.

Much to our relief he’s finally drinking but I expect we have a couple of days of blankets, tv and cuddles.

The Bump Chronicles

The time has come to but bigger pants, I have a permanent wedgie.

I have started knitting a blanket for baby, if my track record is anything to go by, it should be ready by the time bump starts school.

I am 15 weeks today!

Being pregnant and suffering with anxiety.

I have deliberately used the term ‘suffering’. Everyone gets anxious it is arguably a useful human emotion, we need it to an extent. But I suffer from it. It is beyond a useful tool to ensure I get to work on time, and pay my bills. It is the reason I can’t sleep at night. It is the fear that grips me during a car journey when I become convinced that I will die in a crash before I get home. It is the paranoia that people have noticed that I am an appalling excuse for a human being.

Before I became pregnant I was taking medication for my anxiety. And it was working. No panic attacks, the ability to both fall and stay asleep. The ever increasing periods of positivity and dealing with issues that previously would have affected me for weeks.

Then that little blue line appeared on the test window and all medication stopped. And will remain so. I will not risk harm to my baby.

On ceasing the medication I found suddenly how effective it had been. I think my anxiety stems from my failed teaching career. The enormous amount of stress and personal turmoil that caused has never and probably will never be addressed. I feel such a crushing feeling of failure and loss about it that I don’t see me ever fully ‘getting over it’. I’ve said before I have nightmares about it. I’m in the classroom, teaching, enjoying myself. The children start to get noisy and I start loosing control, I try all the tricks that worked in the classroom, they are ineffective. So I start shouting, nothing. I target one child, try to bring them to heel. Nothing. I get angry shout louder, knowing its exactly NOT what I should be doing. And then I wake up, sweating, heart racing, on the verge of tears.

Last night I had that dream again. I tried the clapping pattern I used to do in the classroom to refocus the attention. Nothing, so I clapped harder and harder again and again. Perhaps I really was clapping, my hands were hurting me and I’ve been told you can’t feel pain in a dream. It was different this time, the walls at the back of the classroom lifted and the children went to their parents, still talking, still completely ignoring every effort on my part to regain control. I turned and saw my sister and best friend from childhood standing in the classroom by the door and I burst into tears. Children and parents still milling about, and now my own din was added to the noise. Uncontrollable sobbing.

I’ve never cried during this dream before. I’ve felt like it, but always remained strong enough to refrain. I don’t know why last night was different. All I can do it hope that’s the last time I ever have my sleep invaded by that absolute horror show. But I know it won’t be.

Pregnancy is an anxious time for anyone. Even the second time around. I spent the first few weeks convinced I’d miscarry. There is no medical reason for me worry, nothing about my history that makes it likely. But that’s not how my anxiety works. Every day is a battle between my rational and anxious self. Sometimes rational wins sometimes the anxious. The same anxious side that told me, when the sonographer ran that plastic thingy over the cold, clear jelly on my tummy I would see a dead baby on screen.

My hope is when I start to feel movement these anxieties will subside. At the same time imagine I shall be a thorn in the side of the NHS. And I know, ‘worry can effect the baby’, that is simply another source of anxiety for me.

So it’s different this time, I feel all the wonderful emotions I felt last time. But they’re tainted, with the unshakable feeling that something awful will happen, to the baby, to me or to someone I love. And that’s just something I’ve got to live with for a while.

Just keep swimming.

I took the boy swimming today. We haven’t been since he went on holiday last year. We are going away with hubs’ parents this year and whilst he’ll be under constant supervision in the pool, we’d like him to have recent experience of being in water.

As it’s the summer holidays there are plenty of sessions on and after checking the timetable this morning I thought I’d strike whilst the iron is hot.

To my relief as I was checking said timetable the boy did a big poo, meaning i only had to worry about the boy floating in the pool…

I told the boy we were going swimming and he seemed excited. So I’m not sure why, when it came to actually leaving the house he threw an epic tantrum. Crying, folding his arms, throwing himself on the floor. The works. I remained calm. But in these situations ‘What the fuck is wrong now?!’ Is never far from the tip of my tongue. After coaxing him out of the house I carried him to the car still sobbing. I have no idea why he was crying.

We got to the pool and headed to the (slightly grotty) changing room. There were two old ladies getting changed after their swim who told me Will had ‘such an angelic face’ ha! I wonder what they’d have said if they’d seen him 15 minutes earlier. As the ladies were changing he stared at them. I broke out into a cold sweat. This could go one of two ways. 1: he’ll point at their bodies and shout ‘yuk’ as he does to me on a now daily basis. Or 2: he’ll try and ‘tickle’ them which basically involves grabbing body parts and laughing hysterically. Thank god I had my swimsuit on under my clothes! If there was an Olympic medal for speed changing, I’d have won the gold.

We did the walk of humiliation past EVERYONE to get to the pool. The boy was unsure to start with but when he got onto the water enjoyed shouting ‘splash!’ at the top of his lungs, pointing at my boobs and shouting ‘yuk!’ And pulling the front of my swimsuit down. I also got kicked in the fanny repeatedly.

I definitely helicoptered in the pool but I guess when the alternative is him drowning, helicoptering is important. His head went under once, and whilst he wasn’t happy about it it went down better than I expected. Lessons have now been booked on a Daddy can share the ‘fun’.

I couldn’t help but think parenting is a lot like this swimming experience. Sometimes you feel out of your depth, sometimes you can barely keep your head above the water. Sometimes no matter how hard you try, it feels like a constant kick in the fanny. But one day, you’ll not only be floating, you’ll be swimming.

In other news:

The boy is talking more and more, but every now and again will shout something that sounds a lot like ‘dick’.

I have given up on a tidy house. The boy is the anti-tidy.

I shall attempt to make a cake with the boy later, something I may very well regret…

…and I’m broken.

The day started with the boy sat in a puddle of his own urine, and nappy so heavy with the stuff it could have been used to anchor a cruise ship.

We’ve played with the play-doh (two colours only, which I’m pleased to say have not been mixed) watched a few episodes the Twirly Woos (as many as I can watch before I want to slit my own throat. This number is rapidly decreasing.)

Then we went out. Our fridge is empty. Not empty but I could easily whip up two meals… it’s empty empty.

Knowing never to shop on an empty stomach I took the boy into M&S for some lunch. Will decided he wanted to sit on my lap, as that was the best place to be to wipe pasta sauce all over my clothes. Refusing to eat most of his pasta but giving all my food a good fingering I gave up on the whole lunch idea and headed to Tesco. I had the pushchair but Will was not strapped in, he was walking beside it. That way if he gets tired it’s there but I can also put my shopping basket in it and avoid the whole trolley tantrum scenario.

As we neared Next I decided to pop in and check the sale for boy’s sandals. The smell coming off his is quite frankly a health hazzard but due to the fashion season all I can get in the shops now are wellies and winter boots (just in time for August!) crocs and croc like shoes are available but no way in hell am I putting my boy in them. It’s bad enough pretending I don’t know my own mum when she insists on wearing them on holiday.

We got to the entrance and Will stopped in the doorway. He kept saying ‘bus’ I assume he meant the both shit and astronomically expensive kiddy ride outside Tesco. (A quid?! You can fuck right off!)

He wouldn’t move. And started to cry. No biggie. I tried the old walkin’ away trick. He moved closer but then started wailing so I decided the best course of action was to put him in his pushchair. That was a mistake.

He unleashed the demon.

And I burst into tears. In a shop. In public. I tried to power through. The boy was still screaming and I received a filthy look from a woman with a perhaps nine year old boy, obviously suffering from memory loss. Either that or her son was a robot.

Turns out I was unable to power through. Instead of buying much needed groceries we went to the car. Will looked confused as he was strapped into his car seat by a blubbering mess. The mess that sat in the car park for five minutes (crying) before driving home (still crying).

We got into the house, the boy had clearly forgotten his tantrum and tucked his Hey Duggee ‘Happy’ soft toy under my arm. (No, the irony was not lost on me.)

I’m not cross with the boy. He’s just being two. But I’m furious with myself for letting his tantrum get to me, and putting on such a spectacular public show of how not to parent. Or even adult. Surely I should have this down by now? To to be perfectly honest he’s done worse and that hasn’t made me spend the afternoon crying on and off.

I think I’m getting a migraine. Icing and cake much?

In other news:

Apparently when will yells ‘Fanny’ he means ‘rain’.

The boy pulled my dress up when I was getting off the loo, pointed at my lady parts and said ‘yuk’ earlier today. Do I top myself now or later?

The cats are taking advantage of the wet weather to get filthy and leave footprints all over the duvet. A hobby they’ve not had the opportunity to indulge in for quite some time.

It’s too hot. There, I’ve said it.

Our little island is not blessed with good weather. Most summers are short and wet. But not the case this year. It’s hot. Frigging hot. And we couldn’t be less prepared.

The fun thing about England is that as soon as it hits 18 degrees, we’re out. Parks and pub gardens fill with pasty limbs protruding from shorts and t-shirts. BBQs are lit, garden parties are hosted and kids play in paddling pools. Other countries are still sporting coats as we rush to wear our seldom used summer clothes.

Not this year though. Weeks of high temperatures have scorched the earth and shortened tempers. There isn’t a fan to be found in stock anywhere. We’re fed up of burnt sausages. Our children are forever coated in a greasy film of high factor suncream, and public transport has been rendered risky for all with a working sense of smell.

Now I appreciate this sounds very ungrateful and I too have wished for a hot summer that lasts longer than a fortnight, but we simply aren’t prepared for heat.

The heat has also made one stroppy toddler. A hot, sweaty, stroppy toddler. As a nation we’ve been advised to stay out the heat where possible. I can’t take the boy to the park as the play equipment is hotter than the sun. Most places I’d take him to are sans air conditioning. Soft play is a warehouse that gets comparable to an oven on mild days. I am genuinely concerned that children will just cook in this heat. I’ve been distracting him with tv during the hottest parts of the day but we’re like a cross between hermits and the mole people. Yesterday giving him an ice pop caused a tantrum of epic proportions, bedtime causes a similar meltdown and we haven’t put him in pyjamas in over a month. This Friday we’re set for temperatures to reach 33 degrees Celsius. Weather we quite enjoy on holiday. Where there are swimming pools. Or the sea. And it’s socially acceptable to drink ice cold beers in the day.

Perhaps I’ll miss it when it’s gone, but I’m more of an autumn girl anyway. It’s prettier and there are less armpits to avoid. (Why is it those who should use deodorant rarely do?) I can also take Wills out with worrying about him boiling in his own skin.

I never thought I’d say this, but rain would be great about now!

In other news:

Monday marked Captains three year adoptiversary! He cost us more than all my other pets combined in vet bills but we love the big hairy git.

Our son has the smelliest feet I’ve ever encountered.

It’s my uni besties wedding on Friday! I’m going to be ugly crying for most of the day.