Anna Jefferson From The Argus
The mother of Fred Perry all blogs by Anna Jefferson, who is mum to a two year old and she’s about to give birth to baby number two. Down to earth and funny, Anna chronicles the ace parts of motherhood, the embarrassments and the grisly bits people never tell you about.
Right. That’s it. I’m done being pregnant. It’s T minus three days until the due date and I feel like if I grow a millimetre more, I’m literally going to explode.
I remember reading somewhere, and I’d like to say it was in The Guardian but was more likely to have been on Facebook, that if a normal person’s internal organs were as crushed as a pregnant woman’s, then they would probably be dead. I can totally believe it. I Googled this completely unsubstantiated fact but was redirected to a forum discussing what would happen if a man’s testicles got crushe
Fred Perry trong> Fred Perry d.
I’ve worked out that I could have bought a large bottle of Chanel No. 5 with the amount I’ve spent on Gaviscon over the last nine months, which, in itself, is depressing beyond belief.
I definitely look like I’m about to give birth any second. The waddle is a clear giveaway. I’m walking like I’m straddling a Shetland pony. And the difficulty in getting up from the sofa is something else, now.
The noise I eject has cranked up from a relatively inoffensive grumble, that wouldn’t be out of place in a nursing home, to a full on belting groan, a bit like the world’s strongest man pulling a ten tonne truck.
I ventured onto London Road the other day and every shopkeeper, bar none, went on about how pregnant I looked. This was starting to wear a bit thin, especially when I only wanted to buy some maternity pads and was questioned at great length by the woman behind the counter about how scared I was about going into labour. All I could think was, you’re the one who should be scared, love, this is the furthest I’ve walked in about a month, I’m sweating to death and my hormones are going bananas.
There were some advantages to this unwanted attention, though. When I popped into a coffee shop and asked if I could use their loo without buying anything, the barista took one look at me and responded, ‘Oh my God, of course,’ virtually throwing the key at me. The thing is, although I have a fully grown baby inside me, I’m not sure how ready I am to meet him yet. Now, I realise that this is going to happen imminently. In fact I started panicking my face off when I thought we were all systems go in an Fred Perry NCP car park the other day. It turned out to be trapped wind, but that’s not the point.
It suddenly dawned on me that, possibly before we’ve finished the four pints of milk that are in the fridge, we are going to have a second child. And that sounds very grown up. On top of that, I feel like I’ve forgotten absolutely everything about looking after a baby. A two and a half year old, no problem. But if I try and cast my mind back to what it was like when Nancy was a newborn, it’s like attempting to remember a conversation with someone after five pints. You know it happened, but it’s all a bit of a fug.
I think I haven’t really got my head around the fact that I’ve spent the best part of the last three years adapting to being a mum of one. Striking a balance between parenting/work/having a stab at a social life. Now we’re rewinding to the beginning again. It’s like your sense of identity is completely thrown into question. Your world, once again, becomes the size of the activities you can do with a newborn baby, but this time, there will be a toddler who needs to be entertained as well.
When we brought Nancy back from the hospital we spent the best part of two weeks staring at her in wonder and terror, trying to absorb the information that we’d created a brand new human being. This time, we will bring our son home, and ‘normal’ life will have to resume immediately, because there will be another small child who still needs looking after. So maybe I shouldn’t wish away these last few days but should put them to some good use. Like scanning through some of the stacks of unread baby books we bought three years ago. Or practising my breathing. Or checking I’ve packed the world’s most unattractive nightdress in my hospital bag (the ultimate wear once and bin on the way out item of clothing).
Or maybe I’ll just finish watching House of Cards and eat all the emergency supply of Twirls. I have got at least a whole three days to kill, after all.