My husband, Jay, hasn't exactly got, what you might call, a way with words. I mean, he tells hilarious jokes, (he never forgets a good punchline, unlike yours truly,) and he can do great accents, (my favourite is his Irish one, it's delicious -I would have married him in seconds if he'd used that on our first date!) and when he's working he uses a silver tongue in all his sales pitches. Yet when it comes to describing things Jay will almost always favour his own terms, sound affects and actions over the language of a standard Oxford English dictionary.


It took a while before Jay and I truly understood each other. Not that we have a lack of communication or anything, it's just that I am, in Jay's words, 'a posh Surrey tart,' with a love of the English language and he is a typical west -end London lad that knows and uses virtually every form of cockney rhyming slang ever invented, (and some that I'm pretty sure he's invented himself.)





You want me to give you an example don't you? Hmmmm, well he once called me and said,

'I've just gotta rub over me Baked Beans before we go out tonight. Should I wear my Scooby's or my Gloria Gaynors?'




Which roughly translates to,



'I've just got to iron my jeans and should I wear my shoes? ('Scooby Doo's') or my trainers? '




Gradually, as time has rolled by, we've managed to find a compromise between our two languages so we can chat like any other couple, though I still use terms he finds hilarious and he still says things like, 'tune, by the way,' when a good song comes on the radio or, 'it ain't about that,' when he finds something he doesn't like so much.




One of my favourite characteristics that my gorgeous man possess though is his ability to do Blockbuster sound affects. Seriously he can make the strangest noises. He can simulate a car or a plane or any other motor for that matter, and can make machine-gun noises that wouldn't be out of place in any violent movie. I think it's a talent he shares with the majority of his kind, (the males species that is,) because I've noticed that lots of boys can do it. (Perhaps they learnt at the secret lessons boys had at school, the one where they also learnt to set their farts on fire and to make paper aeroplanes that really can fly?!)




Anyway the point is I am now pretty much used to the way he communicates and thus wasn't surprised when he just pointed out that instead of his life being, (*whistles* a happy tune,) it's more, ('dun, dun, DDDDUUURRRNNNN!!!')




(What he means to say is that instead of everything being easy and simple in his life, it always seems to be complicated and dramatic.)




And this, I'm afraid is where I have unknowingly influenced him. You see my life is always a little dramatic too, I almost always take the hard route and those things that old people are always on about, that are 'sent to test us,' always seem to be sent directly to me. (Perhaps I should redirect my mail?!)




Drama always seemed to follow me around, yet now it appears to want to follow Jay too. Which is why my husband is currently stranded approximately 170 miles from home up in Middlesbrough.




It's a long story, (which involves the loss of a car key and the lack of a spare,) and the conclusion is that instead of being home with Mummy and Leo, Daddy is wearing yesterdays clothes, smells like a tramp, (I imagine, because he forgot to take a towel to use after taking a shower,) and is awaiting the arrival of the spare key which should be with him before 9am tomorrow morning, (according to the very nice lady at the post office whom also kindly informed me that I'd forgotten to actually seal the envelope containing the spare key. Ooops.)




So anyhow I am now technically home alone. Little Leo is spending the night away with Nanny Sandie, (which was arranged during the bizarre hour during this afternoon when it was suggested that I would act as courier and rescue my hubby by taking the 4 hour (and £77!!!) train journey up to meet him,) and Lorelei is still down at Nanny Annie's (and I'm missing her like mad!)




I've got my Tilly and my Jack (both of whom act like Rottweilers, will keep away the burglars and thus will, for one night only, be allowed to sleep on my bed tonight!) – I've got my Tinkerbell (although she hasn't been home for a while, dirty little stop-out) and of course I have Woody and Lucky (the two ducks in the garden) but other than that I'm on my tod.




I'm a 21st century chick. An independant woman. I don't need a man. I enjoy my own company and will saviour this time alone. Ah who am I kidding?! I miss them all already. And I don't quite know what to do with myself.




I have toyed with the idea of drinking Jay's Stella's in the fridge and then belting out a few tunes on the karaoke machine (yep, we must be the only family in Britain to have a karaoke machine in our living room! lol) but singing solo to a couple of mutts seems a little sad, even for me.




I have also toyed with the idea of clearing Lorelei's room and getting cracking on the makeover I'm going to perform as a surprise for her when she returns home. (I've been all inspired by 60-minute makeover and have concluded if they can do a whole house in an hour (give or take the tea break they have half-way through, lazy buggers) I can certainly do a room in 2 weeks!) - Yet I just can't bring myself to tackle the mountains of bits of plastic and play-dough and broken or unused toys.




The telly is somehow displaying billions and billions of channels but still absolutely nothing worth watching and the housework is beckoning but I'm on strike. No way am I going to spend the evening scrubbing thank you very much. (Though I am aware that it is Wednesday and therefore I need to 'do the bins.' Yet since this is Jay's job I'm not really sure what, 'doing the bins' actually entails . . . anyone? lol)




I could go out. Except I have about a fiver in my bag and cash-card is up north. I could invite some friends over, (except we've nearly run out of toilet roll and I don't think it's very good etiquette to invite guests over and ask them to bring their own.)




What did I used to do before I became a Mummy and a Wife? It seems an age away . . . let's see . . . If i wasn't in the pub, or out dancing the night away I might have been in the gym, (Katy and I used to go together. We'd weigh ourselves first, then work-out, then weigh ourselves again, then go and have a Maccy D's to console ourselves on the discovery that we hadn't lost an ounce. Lol) – or failing that I think i would have been at home pampering and preening and beautifying myself.




Yep. That's what i'm gonna do. Stick my ipod on shuffle. Spend an hour in the tub. Deep-condition my hair. Exfoliate. Moisterise. Face-Mask. Slip into my softest PJ's and chill . . .




And just like that. Suddenly I'm not feeling quite so lonely after all ;-)

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Domestic? Hardly. Goddess? Of course ;-)



Yesterday, however,  I was a bit of both. I’m all preened and plucked and have been pampered to within an inch of my life in preparation for those post-birth photo’s. (My goodness that’s a lot of p’s lol) and I’ve also either undergone a personality transplant unknowingly or have finally been blessed with the good old instinct to nest.



I’ve been waiting for the nesting instinct to kick in for weeks and weeks now, all the while my house was starting to resemble something Kim and Aggie would want to get their marigolds on. On my big pregnant bottom I’d sat, willing myself to attempt the housework, alas I couldn't muster the strength for anything more than a Sky + remote workout. 

Well finally a few days ago I had my body possessed by a clean freak and boy have I made up for lost time. Scrubbing, scouring, spraying, cleansing, bleaching . . . You name it we did it. (You see with the nesting instinct also came a bossing instinct which ensured that both Jay and Lori were involved in my cleaning spree.)



Yesterday, on my hands and knee’s, I scrubbed the bathroom floor with bump serving as a drying and polishing aid, (twas quite funny actually, even though I was soaked by the end of it) and I’m feeling so satisfied right now with everything done and dusted. Barry Scott eat ya heart out . . .



My labour bag, now that I’m left with little choice but to have this baby in hospital, is finally all packed with totally undignified yet essential items such as disposable pants and maternity pads. All acting as a cruel reminder of what I’ve got to come. I’m nervous as hell but so want to get this show on the road.



The only way I can describe how I feel right now is to compare it, (very naively) to sky diving, (of course this comparison isn’t likely to be very precise since I am a ‘feet firmly on the ground (in gorgeous shoes) kinda gal’ and have therefore not even come close to jumping outta a plane,) but for the purpose of explanation this is what I’m going with.



The plane is soaring, the door is open, I’m waiting for the final countdown to begin before I take a giant leap. My heart is pounding, I feel sick and dizzy.



Add the false alarms and painfully strong Braxton hicks that I have been getting regularly for days and days now and I feel as though someone is rocking me towards the door of the plane and then yanking me back again. ‘Ready . . . Steady . . . Only joking.’



I’m on pain killers to help ease the tenderness that these practise contractions are causing but they don’t seem to be helping much, because it still hurts so much that at times I feel I could just collapse into a heap and cry a million tears.



It’s got to the point now where I no longer trust my body nor my instincts.  My bump will tense until it is as heavy and hard as a boulder. My back will begin to ache under the strain and my breath will be temporarily out of reach and I have little choice but to try to ignore it and hope it’ll either be accompanied by something dramatic like the breaking of my waters or something or will just f- off and leave me in peace.



It’s exhausting and depressing and just plain cruel. And I have officially reached that stage in pregnancy where I could quite literally climb to the rooftops and scream, ‘GET it out!!!’ (Alas do not fear, my previously mentioned ‘feet on the ground’ thing will prevent me from making any risky trips on top of buildings! Lol)



But it’s not just the pain that’s at the root of my impatience. Because I also just cannot wait to meet this little person now. Cannot wait to love and nurture him on the outside. To welcome him into our (now very clean and sparkly) home and cradle him as the newest member of our family.



I have been pregnant for over a year now. In total it has been 59 weeks. It’s been the biggest endurance test ever and such a rollercoaster of a ride. Reaching the halfway mark in one pregnancy before receiving such tragic news that I don’t think any of us will ever truly get over, was by far the most traumatic experience I’ve ever had (and with my track record of dramatic events that is saying something) - Then when we discovered I was expecting again, just 6 short weeks after we had lost our gorgeous baby boy, and we had to live in constant fear that we were about to experience a case of history repeating. Especially when the genetics doctors told me we had just a one-in-four chance of our new baby being born healthy. Well we made it this far, the finishing line is just days away, yet I don’t feel as though I can wait another second.



So I’m going to be a naughty girl this afternoon, I’m going to be a rebel (something's never change.)  I have tried every other method in my GTBOM experiment to no avail and I have just one final trick up my sleeve—The Castor Oil.



It’s gotta be dodgy stuff. It’s harder to get hold of than crack. Seriously. It’s kept under lock and key in the pharmacy and pregnant women are absolutely forbidden to purchase it. This fact should not fill me with confidence, it should make me reconsider entirely. So too should all the terrible reviews and horrific stories I’ve read. So too should the comments and experiences and advice from my fellow pregnant ladies. Alas I am, I’m ashamed to admit, just one of those girls who’ll never learn. Or rather shall learn eventually but will always take the most difficult route. I have come to accept this over the years.



Basically I’ve read that castor oil, (which, as mentioned in my previous blog, is a really strong laxative) is meant to encourage contractions by making the intestines, which surround the uterus at this late stage of pregnancy, contract. This in itself is basically supposed to speed things up a little. So you see, In my opinion all I am really doing is giving mother nature and my stubborn body a gentle shove in the right direction.



If I have to suffer contractions at least let them being working towards getting my longed-for bubba into my arms.



Women have been using Castor Oil for decades and decades, though once again there are claims that nobody really knows how successful this method is for kick-starting labour because there hasn’t been enough research undertaken, which just sounds like such a load of bull to me.



I’ve been given advice from some of the girls in the village who have all tried it before. They all recommend eating an enormous meal, (which should be easy peasy for me as my current appetite could rival an elephants!) then mixing the oil with OJ (Apparently the oil really is completely disgusting) - downing it in one before hopping into a lovely warm tub, having a soak and waiting for the effects.



This is pretty much how I’ll be spending my afternoon. I’m nervous but hopeful—dreading the horrible side effects but praying that this will be the one trick in the book that’ll work for my bump and I.



Please don’t tell me off. I’m a big girl and I promise to suffer in silence if it does all go horribly wrong. Either way I’ll keep you posted!



x

 

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