~ The Real and the Realest
So this is getting realer.
I think hitting 30 weeks makes it so.
That is, like, 10 weeks until go time. When it all happens. The really real part.
Say 10 weeks, and my mind is instantly hurtling on the express train to Freak Out Town.
Say two and a half months, and it sounds so far in the distance, I can't even begin to think about hospital bags or birth plans.
And it might not even be 10 weeks, it could be eight. It could be four. It could be . . . NOW!
We started our five-week course of ante-natal classes this week.
There are eight couples in our group. As always, it's the usual completely random group of people who wouldn't normally ever end up in the same room as each other, but who have been thrown together by some miraculous clash of family planning.
And as always, the first week is a true study in the awkwardness of human social interaction.
"So, we're going to start by going around the room and introducing ourselves," the midwife announces in the beginning.
The groan is only slightly muffled by a general waftage of frightened politeness settling over everyone in the room.
The women in each couple do the talking, telling us how many weeks they are, who their OB/GYN is and why they chose that doctor.
I am among the smaller bumps in the room and instantly find myself doing that terrible thing that is rife among parents: comparing. As much as you rail against it, you just cannot help casting a furtive glance down at your average-sized 30-week-old bump when the lady across the room from you says she is 26 weeks and is clearly ENORMOUS compared to you.
We talk about when to bring the hospital, what to pack in your bag (shit, better do that soon), what complications can happen and we watch two videos which both carry misleading soundtracks (soothing massage music, not blood-curdling screams), a misleading cast (disturbingly hairy-down-there German women in baggy jumpers) and misleading lengths (evil editing making them run for less than seven minutes: yes please!).
Can someone PLEASE produce a birthing video that is newer than 1987, can someone please NOT overlay a ridiculous audio track composed by Swami Shanda and his wailing whale orchestra and can someone please in god's name shave these women before filming them!
And apart from an emotional weekend where I felt quite sorry for myself and longed for: silence, sleep, massages on the hour, a new spine, exquisite food, a quiet house minus a four-year-old and more sleep - all in equal measure, preferably at once, not much else of note to report this week.
I got a bit teary and snappy over the weekend, which I find is unfortunately a regular-ish occurrence as the lack of sleep catches up. In a big yucky wave.
Something tells me I better get used to that feeling . . .