slummy mummy

welcome to the world of capuccinos, childcare and afternoon naps.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

and it's only going to get ...

having your second child means you know a lot of things. not only about looking after a little baby, but what happens to you and those around you when it finally pops out.

as far as the b-word goes, you understand that i have no illusions about what a positive experience this can be. i'm simply hoping for a swift, drug induced delivery in what can only be described as war between your baby and your body.

so, the next thing to realise is that pregnant lady now becomes new mum. whereas a few days ago strangers would have sparked up conversations about 'how long to go / do you know what it is / etc , there's no-one going to ask you exactly how many hours of sleep you managed last night or how you're stitches are doing.

and then of course there's your husband. the poor thing will have either up all night or sleeping in an upright chair during the b-word. he will be tired and in need of sleep, food and most probably sex.

of course, the bonus here is that you do get a squishy squashy teeny tiny 'how come that fitted inside me' / 'how come i squeezed that out of me' baby. last time round i didn't get that delivery room glow - i was just terrified of doing something wrong. maybe it will happen this time round, or maybe it will be a delayed pleasure like with the little thing.

the other bonus, of course, should be that lovely close time with your significant other. images of all of us on the bed together, him taking pictures, fetching drinks and chocolate etc. wouldn't it be lovely?

except that going on my theory of what's good now gets worse later, that's not going to happen.

this morning we've already argued over who should get up with the little thing (who has a temperature) with him suggesting a 'shift system' of parenting is what we need. as in, i get up early and he gets up later.

i asked him several times if he thought this was appropriate with me at 9 months pregnant and counting. unable to answer, he begged me to stop berating him and went, like a bear with a sore head, back to bed.

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