Like a ticking timebomb

It's a bloody weird time. I've finished work, I've unpacked all sorts of strange pieces of equipment, I've laid out unfeasibly small pairs of socks and singlets in drawers, I've ummed and ahhed over dummies that look like spacecraft, wondered over buying a bottle or not and bought packets of nappies feeling like a total pretender. I've lunched, had coffee, run around doing social things and now as I look into my diary after the next couple of days there's......................nothing, the pages are all blank.

The baby's due in six days, but my Dr says it could be any day now from the look of me. It's a weird feeling, I make plans to meet people for lunch but have to tell them I'll call them to confirm in case I'm having a baby instead. Ha ha ha - I laugh a little too hysterically. Other friends and family I have seen recently kiss me goodbye and then wish me luck (specially those who've had kids already) and then kind of give me this look like I'm about to head off to the gallows or check into a nunnery or something equally all changing and dramatic. Argh! I feel like I am teetering on a precipice and when the time is right for me to topple off nothing will be the same again.

But in the meantime the land of denial is a nice place to live and I'd quite like to live there a little longer. However my body and baby keep reminding me that I won't be living there for much longer. I'm now hobbling about with a sore lower back and loosened pelvis, and my body is throwing out what are usually called 'practice contractions' which according to the baby books "feel uncomfortable." Well if being "uncomfortable" means gasping for breath, unable to speak, falling onto the couch shaking and managing to rip a button off a cushion while writhing about in pain I can't wait for real labour - what a delight it must be. Why don't our bodies come with a nice zipper somewhere so I could just reach in and pluck my baby out when she is cooked and ready. Why does it have to be so messy and unpredictable? Hardly intelligent design.

And I'm not the only one who thinks there's a serious design fault with this whole pregnancy and birth lark. Ed's little nephew is four, he was having a good look at my enormous belly the other night and after inspecting it from all angles he looked up at me with a puzzled expression and said - "how are you going get the baby out? "That's a very bloody good question David", I say. "I'll have to get back to you on that one"...