Here I am, with eleven days to go and what do I do? Pig like the greediest little piggy ever seen in the history of the world. I feel shattered and my energy levels are at an all time low, so my only resolution seems to be eating myself into a mindless stupor all day everyday.
I’ve always felt bad for the poor women who suffer post-natal depression and try to put myself in their shoes and understand why they feel so down about themselves and their situation. I can’t imagine being miserable, or annoyed or upset with having a beautiful baby, but I can see how it’s possible. I guess everything can build up on your plate all at once and seem impossible to deal with, like a nice big dog turd left on the pavement that you always seem to smash with your favourite heels, or getting splashed by a muddy lorry at the side of the road in a new outfit. I can see how the world can one day be your best friend and the next seem your worst enemy.
I like to think that I’m a positive person and I don’t like to complain about my silly little problems when there are millions of people out there suffering and in pain and coping with so much more. BUT what the hell am I thinking eating like it’s the end of the world? In no circumstances can any good ever come of this. I feel like I’m living in limbo, only I’m at least ten stones heavier than a limbo dancer can safely get away with being. It’s been raining endlessly day and night for weeks now and the daylight, if you can call it that is so gloomy and depressing. The air feels stagnant and my body oozes unhealthiness. Despite eating salad and fruit and drinking water up until my sudden biscuit binge, I still feel like a fat old bird stuck in a tiny cage squinting to see out of some knackered old lace curtains on the other side of an old people’s home common room. I feel trapped and undriven; frumpy and unloved. My stomach is so hard it could be mistaken for a giant promotional white-chocolate malteser, it has no give in it whatsoever; I actually think some crazy surgeon has operated on me in the night and attached a massive elbow to my stomach, it feels like solid bone and makes me feel sick at the thought of knocking and bumping it.
I’ve been taking my raspberry leaf tablets religiously in the hope of coaxing my cervix into submission as quickly as possible. The thought of going overdue makes me want to cry into a family sized tub of vanilla and chocolate chip ice cream with Sex-And-The-City on rerun. But my only saving glory this time has been my ankles, compared to my cankles when I was carrying Millie, so if just one part of my body has stayed slim by some freak fluke then maybe it’s a sign from God that all will be ok, no – it DEFINITELY is a sign. My ankles are talking to my lady zone right now and saying “We’ve done it so you can too sister!”
I’m still ferreting around the house doing my little tidying and tweakings for no reason at all. I would hate to be a stay at home wife, I’ve not even had three weeks on maternity leave yet and already I can feel my brain cells turning to jelly. I don’t think there is anything in the world that is worse for your sanity than staying at home whilst the human race continue with their busy lives, other than the apocalypse perhaps, but by the time you acknowledge the fact it would be too late so I don’t think it would count.
Come on 11 days! We’re down to counting the fingers on two hands tomorrow, but which finger will you arrive on Gabriele? Right hand little, left hand index? It would be nice to be on a thumb day (5days time) because it balances out nicely and sits aesthetically pleasing. Or my ring finger would be great, as it would most likely have a hidden meaning that we will have a happy family and marriage until the end of time, of course. My knuckles are looking a little dumpy recently, who’d have thought putting on 3stones would make your slender digits look like Iceland value sausages!? So glamorous.
Well, let’s see what this weekend has in store for us, hopefully lots of cramps, blood and discharge! x x x