I’m fat. My back hurts. I feel more like I am eight months pregnant rather than just over four. Maybe this is what happens when you have three children in quick succession; your body rebels, it sags in places not designed to stretch over and over and aches everywhere else. I am still suffering morning sickness, although not the vomiting thank God, and I am tired and lacking energy. I would go down to surgery for an anaemia blood test but I know either I or the children would come back with some nasty bug picked up at the doctor’s office and then I would be tired and lacking energy from that so there seems little point.
I am not exactly blooming therefore, but I feel good in myself and am excited about the twenty week ultrasound coming up. We won’t be finding out the sex, although I might just sneak a look when Matthew isn’t looking. I could keep it to myself, really I could.
The baby is kicking like mad, sometimes punching me in the ribs for good measure pretending that it is a seven month old foetus, not a four month old one that I should barely be feeling yet. But with all this kicking maybe he’ll be a premiership footballer and earn millions which he will give to his parents in their old age.
Matthew and I continue our arguments over baby names. We can’t agree on a single one, for either sex, so the poor little sod is going to be nameless or else Matthew and I will have to get divorced so that I can give the baby a name that he won’t be ridiculed for for the rest of his life. I mean who calls a baby Hereward? (No offence if you or your son or any family member is called Hereward of course [sorry Cal].)
Off to find a support belt to offer my back some relief. Or I could just spend the next four months resting, eating grapes and ordering my family around – now THAT sounds like an idea.
Comments on this entry are closed.