Week 114- headlocks, avocado sized babies and lying to the shop assistant in M and S...

I can’t cope with the lack of sleep being pregnant and having a two year old allows.

I know it’s THE most boring, repetitive conversation a parent can have.

Blah blah blah I’m tired.

Blah blah blah I could do with going to bed.

Blah blah blah the inside of my eyes feel prickly and I can’t remember if I’ve said the last thing out loud or just in my head as I’m so exhausted.

But.

Seriously.

I remember when I was pregnant with Nancy.

I’d get in from work about 6ish. Watch Neighbours while stretched out on the sofa. Doze until about 7.30. Eat something, then go to bed. Sleep nine hours, then roll out of bed at my own leisurely pace.

And everyone was interested in the pregnancy.

Friends wanted to know how I was feeling.

I’d get lovely texts from those I didn’t see so regularly saying they were thinking of me.

Family would talk excitedly about what it was going to be like, having a newborn in the family.

And I showed more interest too.

I knew exactly at what week the baby was the size of a walnut/ avocado/ honey dew melon.

I went to pregnancy yoga from week 12. I knew when I was at week 12. And 17. And 21. In fact I could, at any one time, tell you exactly how many days until my due date.

This time round, I’m lucky if I remember the midwife's appointment, let alone how pregnant I am.

On the whole, second pregnancies just don't seem as interesting to people as the first.

There was initial interest. Of course. But after the ‘surprise, we’re doing it again!’ convo, we might  as well have all locked that vital piece of info in the memory bank for the next few months.

That is apart from the daily reminder of the too tight jeans, heartburn and constant lack of breath.

Second time round is harder.

Much harder.

Now I know I got myself into this situation in the first place, so I’m not looking for sympathy.

But, jeez, it’s almost like the people who used to give up their seat for me on the bus know it’s baby number two, and don’t bother getting up, as if they’re subliminally telling me, ‘you had this seat two years ago. I’ve done my bit, fatty.’

 

 

The long restful nights of pregnancy one are now replaced with a 2am, 4am and often 6am wakeup call from Nancy asking me if it’s time to get up yet.

And after countless times of putting her back in her own bed, the meltdowns start to go off the Richter scale.

So we relent, and let her sleep in our bed, where she likes to hold onto my face whilst simultaneously digging her heels into my bladder, and almost instantly falls back to sleep.

While I’m being given a headlock by a two year old.

I know I’ve done this all before.

This pregnancy lark.

So this should be a walk in the park.

My body obviously remembers, that’s why the bump has popped out so quickly, making me look about three months further down the line than I actually am.

But I feel like my head’s not even a bit there.

I used to buy odd bits of baby clothes to make the bump feel like a baby when I was pregnant with Nancy.

But we’ve got drawers bursting at the seams of baby stuff so it’s not so much of a treat to go and hang around the child section of Marks and Sparks.

Maybe I should.

Nancy can go to the child-minder for the afternoon.

And I’ll peruse the new-born babygro section.

Tell the shop assistant that this is my first pregnancy, and see how she congratulates me and wishes me luck for the future, lost momentarily in nostalgia as she reminisces about her own first born.

Then I’ll go home, lie on the sofa and watch reruns of Come Dine with Me before having an afternoon snooze.

It will be like hitting the reset button, before continuing with real life.