My Father has taught me many valuable lessons in my life. For example - "If One does not speak properly, One will never get a good job". He still winces at News presenter's 'regional' accents. Grammar and pronunciation have always been of the up most importance to him. My Father is all about good manners. God forbid you lick his butter knife (not a euphemism) or say an offensive word or put your elbows on the dinner table or drink out of a bottle as opposed to a glass. And speaking of 'glass' - God forbid you say 'glass' and not 'glaarrss'. But he also taught me very early on that to be late is the rudest thing you can be.
Well it turns out his Grandson is one little rude Bugger (sorry Father)! Because he is late. He is not on time. It is the 12th of February - a date that has been etched into my skull since our first scan. A date that has ruled my every move along the chess board of pregnancy for nine. long. months. It is Pancake day! Shrove Tuesday! D-Day! THE day. In the words of 'Take That': Today this could be... the greatest day of our lives". So - where is he? What an inconsiderate Git!
Nine months of obsessing over this date - 12/02/13 - and so far, it is not living up to its expectations. I woke up and I was still here. I was still the same. Everything is still unchanged. I am still ... fat, swollen, anxious, uncomfortable, immobile, fed up and exhausted. My partner still got up and went to work. The sun, well as much sun as you can get in England in February, still rose. The earth still turns. "Don't they know it's the end of the world?” So what to do... what to do... Make pancakes?
I thought it would be a lot nicer - being pregnant. Especially considering how pregnancy rates are continually soaring in the UK - especially among our youth. I thought it must have its benefits (other than the literal Government 'Benefits').
So, here we are, at full term. Most of the food in my fridge has the use by date of today - my cottage cheese for example, and I have a 1000 piece jigsaw to do. But what will be first? The cottage cheese or the jigsaw ... or my son? We shall see.
There's just enough time for my Mother to email me again to ask me if I am alright, oh, and to remind me to remind the midwife to not forget about removing the Placenta. Thank goodness she remembered to remind me to remind her! Or that poor midwife wouldn't have known would she? She probably doesn't even know what a Placenta is! Thank goodness for my overly medically qualified Mother - and look out for her upcoming debut novel "Bleeding Obvious smack you in the face advice to patronise and irritate professionals with".
Available in hardback.
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