As I reach the last weeks of a pregnancy that I could never describe as enjoyable I find myself, surprisingly philosophical about when the baby will arrive.
Suddenly everyone I speak to assumes I am fed up and desperate not to be pregnant any longer. They put their head to one side and screw up their noses asking “How are you, bet you’ve had enough now?” I smile and shrug and tell them I really am OK and that the baby will come when it comes.
There are things praying on my mind, but they have nothing to do with our impending arrival. My Mum is going through a difficult and financially messy relationship break up, Mckdad has been applying for a job (which we found out tonight he didn’t get) and thanks to an absess and stress-related cystitis for my cat (have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous!) I have been to the vet’s surgery five times in less than a week. There are the usual nerves about the birth and until that baby is safely in my arms I cannot totally relax, but that is all normal and natural.
I am feeling, what I can only describe as, twitchy. Physically tired, yet itching to do things, while at the same time unable to settle to anything. I am not even knitting. However, as far as actually being pregnant is concerned I’m feeling OK, for probably the first time since the second line appeared in that little plastic window so many months ago.
I can see the end, or rather the beginning and yet am happy to wait until the baby is ready to come. Every day means another day to grab some extra rest, potter around the house nesting or enjoy the relative peace of being a mother to one child.
My due date is Friday and I intend to simply carry on as normal with no fuss. I am hoping that this new found laid back attitude is still around even if I do have another 2 weeks to go.