I didn't see that coming really. I mean, in the world of books and television its a beautiful thing. The expectant mother is serene and at peace and glowing and then there is that perfect little bundle at the end of it and off they go for walks in the park and snuggles in bed on a Sunday morning... bliss. Pah! I'll warn you now- if you're squeamish, don't read any further. I now spend my days with a toddler. Snot, pee, poop, blood, bogies- these things are part of daily life now and I'm not afraid to share them! (Not literally, that would be disgusting. Crazy doesn't have the same social boundaries, sadly)
Here's a glimpse into my story. I found out I was pregnant fairly early- as I previously blogged- via a spell of dizziness and a serious hankering for sausages. There it was, clear as day on that little plastic stick. 'Pregnant 1-2 weeks'. Wow! I can't believe it! I'm pregnant! Eeek!! (Continue solidly for about four hours). Now what? Everyone knows you can't tell anyone until the 12 week 'safety' point. So... Erm... Just how am I supposed to function? I have this huge burning secret and its so exciting and I have to tell the world NOW!! But I can't. So I'd better go to work then. I remember the days, the hours even, absolutely dragging by. In the end, we had to speak up sooner than 12 weeks due to some complications. I was worried sick after some early bleeding. Scan after scan confirmed that our little seed was, in fact, still going strong and growing well. I pee'd on countless sticks to make sure I was still pregnant because, after all, it's been an hour and I haven't felt sick, something must be wrong, I'd better take a test to be sure I haven't dreamt it all. Yep- I was obsessed!
It wasn't the easiest journey, but I was still fairly lucky on the old symptom side. I was a little bit queasy in the early weeks and I had trapped nerves and elephant's ankles nearing the end, but other than that my only real worry was worry itself. I fell into depression in the last trimester. I had convinced myself that there was absolutely no way I could give birth naturally and requested a c-section. 'Cut me open please- it's best for me and the baby. Thanks very much'. Thankfully my obstetrician knew what she was doing, flatly denied my insane request and insisted I take antidepressants until the baby arrived. I was heartbroken, insisted Mr T tell her where she could stick her pills (I was too busy blowing snot bubbles and generally having a tantrum) and when he eventually calmed me down and took me home I realised that, just maybe, they were right. They worked wonders and although I was still terrified of giving birth (tell me, who isn't terrified of pushing a tiny person out of there?!) I was much calmer and prepared for what may be in store for us.
Whilst at the mother-in-law's for dinner one day I had a terrible backache. I couldn't sit down because my hips hurt no matter how comfy the sofa. I perched helplessly on an exercise ball that the goblins had been playing with and found instant comfort. Brilliant. I'll just spend the next 9 days on this ball until my due date rolls around. Mr T says "You're probably in labour, babe". Ha! He has no idea. It's not my due date yet.
Fast forward about 10 hours, some icky stuff (see? I spared you details, I'm nice really) and they're telling me to push. PUSH?! But.. you're supposed to tell me to go home! That it's not time yet. That I'm an overreacting first timer that knows nothing- I've watched 'One born every minute', I know the drill! My nearest and dearest know all about just how it happened, but all you need to know is that it happened. The miracle from the films. There he was.
He didn't say much, but I took that as a good sign that we were in it together. He slept all night. I stared at him all night.
As he grew, so did I. My heart grew. I had so much love for this little being. He had some problems with a cows milk intolerance and that was tough. He was so poorly and I knew then and there I would do anything within my power to help this little man.
Fast forward to today and Hippo is now 'Crazy' and he makes me laugh every day, without fail. He is the most energetic, funny, bright little man and I'm so very proud. I may be biased but he is also gorgeous- we made a good one! He knows what he wants, he's as stubborn as me and we clash on a regular basis, but he's learning that Mummy is right. I'm still learning that lesson at 30 so I can't blame him for trying his luck at 20 months. He's starting to understand the world around him. He loves to figure out how things come apart and go back together. He loves to interact with people. He may be Russian... the English language isn't too important for him, but I guess it's early days yet. I delight in his excitement when he balances the most bizarre things together to make a tower. My favourite to date is my slipper, a train, a building block and a Quaver to top it off- brilliance.
I have less time for my friends and I miss them dearly, but they get it. They understand that a whole new life started for me the day he was born and they're still there when I need them. I still need them. However busy life gets, I'm still here for them too. I hope they know that. I enjoy our rare nights out all the more these days- I don't take them for granted. Although I'll be honest, these days, midnight is about my limit knowing that in about five hours a small excitable dictator will be clambering over my head demanding "Mummy, digga giggaaarr... badum-badum niet. Yar? Yeah!" "Yes baby. Wait... what have I just agreed to?"and I'll have to be conscious enough to avoid the book being jammed into my eye socket and not so hungover that I can stomach the soggy leftover cereal and stale crisps being shoved into my mouth while he grins and tells me "mmm yummy" just I as I have to him for the past 18 months... I do love my life.
I feel very fortunate to have Mr T, Crazy and the goblins. Even if, at times, they turn ME into a crazed goblin. I wouldn't change it!
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