There comes a point in pregnancy when you don't think you can a) get any bigger or b) get any more tired.
I think I am at that point.
It's like being an absolutely massive wind up toy.
I headed into town yesterday full of plans to buy oral arnica for quick healing bits after labour, got as far as the high street and then ground to a halt.
I could see Holland and Barrett.
I knew that 50 metres more and I'd be at the shop.
But I couldn't convince my legs to move.
If someone had offered me a sit down on a rusty-nailed chair for five hundred quid at that very moment, I would have said, 'yep go on then, put it on my tab.'
So I just stood there.
Panicking a bit that I might have to wait until Ben finished work two hours later and ask him to pick me up from the side of the road.
I then spotted that the electronic sign on my bus stop said 2 minutes until the 5B.
So I crossed over, waddled onto the bus and headed home, disappointingly empty handed.
I don't know what's worse.
The fact that I am wheezing like a 40-a-day smoker from just standing up.
That my stomach is now so huge that the elastic cummerbund designed to give my bump support has been under so much pressure that it now pings off unexpectedly when I'm out, like an obese Babs Windsor.
That the acid indigestion from my internal organs being so squashed is now at a stage where I'm double dropping Gaviscon and Rennies on a half-hourly basis.
Or that all of this will end soon to be replaced by cracked nipples, sleepless nights, a fanny that could probably hide the Titanic and hair loss in all the wrong places.
I was having a bit of a lie down as my brain was going a tad mental with it all, contemplating the now and anticipating the very near future.
When something ace happened.
Nancy came into the bedroom, climbed over my Everest sized tummy, asked if she could 'rest with me' (I'm still unsure where she's picked up these period-drama style phrases) and wrapped her very sticky arms around my neck.
At the same time, Tiddler woke up and started beating seven bells out of me from the inside.
Nancy accused him of 'kicking her in the face,' but said she didn't mind as she loved her brother, and wanted to know exactly when he was coming out so she could show him her plastic Grandad Dog.
And I thought, two children is going to be the hardest thing we've ever done.
It's going to put a strain on everything we currently know.
But maybe it's also going to be a little bit fucking brilliant.