Early Sunday Morning

All ready now

We've entered Scoripio, turned back the clock and come 5:30 am, Tara climbs out of bed, stares at me and declares: "Mummy, I need a wee-wee. There's no light." (Read: 'Mother, get up, switch the light on and come with me.') "And after that I want pancakes for breakfast and watch Charlie and Lola." (Read: Forget about going back to bed after toilet support duty.)
Cruel. Especially since on a regular week day, when I need her up by 7:30, I can often barely get her up for 8am, and certainly not without a long snuggly sleepy cuddle. But here's the beauty of it: We got an extra 3 hours to the day rather than just one, and that was plenty of time to finish sorting the bedroom out, hoover the house, do three loads of washing, put summer clothes into storage and put baby clothes size 3 months up away; time for shopping for/with Tara (clothes), groceries, gifts, and more baby stuff; and after all that: still plenty of time to visit the tea room I've been meaning to go to visit for the last 1 1/2 years (part of my bucket list - my Thanet bucket list anyway) for coffee, double helpings of cake and a little late-pregnancy photo session, with plenty time for Tara to charm everyone in that tea room by chatting happily with the lady owner and performing "Bah Bah Black Sheep" for all the old dears present. We'll be back, and we'll be recognised. Ah, my face and my motherly heart glowed with pride! What a lovely day!

Family of three...

Busy busy then, getting ready; and that was only today. Tomorrow, while I'm enjoying my first weekday on maternity leave, I have plans for a dinner cooked from scratch, some cake baking, car/home/life insurance investigating, scheduling of play dates for the week ahead, assembling of labour music play list, and some more washing.
There must be some sort of connection between this unexpected shocking surge of energy and the beginning of my year-long maternity leave (holidays, yay!). Or maybe it is Leo's continued descent into the birthing regions - suddenly I can breath again, the horrid heart burn is nearly gone, and the idea of keeping this pregnancy lark up for another two weeks or so suddenly seems rather appealing, actually. How things can change in a day!
With that in mind: I'll see whether tomorrow I'll be a domestic goddess, whether I'll just lie in bed and feed the family ready made pizza, or whether I'll be busy having a baby (with an improvised or no music play list). It'll be a nice day either way.

... going on FOUR

And now I'm going to have a muffin or two, fold three loads of washing and wrap presents.

Rah Rah, Leo!

Tara, waiting. Even 'Crocodowel' is doubled over with boredom.

The latest lot of fresh stretch marks actually hurt (ok - a little), and one of the nicer compliments I was given this last week was "you've got a right old waddle on you, girl." That was after Leo had turned and I felt that my gait had improved immensely over night, i.e. that when walking down a narrow corridor, there was no longer an immediate risk of head injury. When I get up to walk somewhere these days, I look like I'm on my way to a Limbo contest and already practising. I've officially given up washing the dishes due to problems reaching the sink and feel guilty about letting Jose do everything (other than growing 14gram of baby fat per day), and I'm no longer taking pleasure in people debating whether I'm BIG or QUITE SMALL. I'm TIRED OF BEING PREGNANT. Mind you, I've been tired of being pregnant for quite a while now, at varying degrees - it's just not the same the second time round; no offence, Leo, it's not personal.

Tara speaks to her brother: "Come on, Leo. Come on, Bruder. I can't see you!" Rah, rah, Leo, get a wriggle on! We spent some time the other day listing all the yummy foods that were waiting for him this side of my tummy, with Tara luring him with "polar bear ice cream... mozzalelli... pineapple pizza" and a whole host of other delicacies she could think of. His beds are made, and Tara is practising covering up the whole thing in case he doesn't like the mobile over his basket (her babies, it appears, don't).

The central heating has had a trial run for the impending - fingers crossed - cosy home birth (and has stayed on since; 18 celsius is just nicer than 14-16), and have I mentioned that I'm tired? I have? Never mind then.

Leo, bub, don't tell me you're going to wait until we've settled on a middle name - you'll have me wondering whether a random one like (randomly opening baby name book) Laird, Nelek or Salamon (bad baby name book) is worth the extra two weeks. Or are you waiting until the 24th at least to make sure you're a scorpio - the one sign that your dear mother really has concerns about? I say, 38 weeks are just as good as 40. COME ON OUT! Major cuddles waiting!

Come on OUT... and STOP giving me stretch marks!

Week 38 completed

For the record: The man-who-does-the-dishes has a different opinion about the ideal length of this pregnancy. "Leave him alone, he'll come out when he's ready, and that way we'll all get some rest before, you included."

Little Helpers (3 Weeks to Go)

The little lady is treating me to support wherever she can. She sleeps better at night (thanks!), she wakes up calling for the BROTHER instead of her mother (Aaaaw!) and she gets up in the morning declaring "I want to go to daddy, you can stay in bed a little longer" (THANKS!!). Of course, she and her babies also continue to test every baby item they can get their sweet hands on, like the bed with the new cute elephant cot bumber:


And how is this for help in the kitchen? The table laid as follows: Daddy, left, a big fat "strong muscle" bread knife and a regular fork. Mum, middle, a regular knife and a kiddie desert spoon. Tara, right, a butter knife and an adult fork. Leo, top corner, a half empty glass of milk. Touching? Touching.


Leo, too, is being a star. After a whole tense week of worry about his position (transverse, back to back), its implications for my home birthing plans and whatonearthamIgoingtodowithTara, he's turned and was parked just outside the birth canal, head first, when the midwife whecked on us last Tuesday. What a relief! But maybe I can claim half of the laurels - after all, I've spent an intentionally relaxed weekend, took a day off work, and dangled over a gym ball on all fours for a fair share of the time. But if we go there, Jose also should have a share of the praise for keeping the family up and running while I lounged in bed or dangled off said ball. Praise for everyone!

Leo is officially full term and welcome to hatch once I've gotten the oldest sheets and cushions out, remembered how to work the heating, and after I've roared some more with Tara like a lion/ dinasaur/ mummy in labour and read Hello Baby with her at least ten times (one down, nine to go). Oh, and then there's the minor issue of me still being at work for another 8 days, of course - I nearly forgot... and then wanting a few days to rest all by myself... so actually, I'd like another 2 1/2 weeks or so, really.

But...but... those precious little teeth!!

A cavity! A scandal! A visit to the dentist! A drill! A sticker! ... And a mother with a very very bad conscience.

A princess, her teeth and her sticker

I'd just spent a week discussing sweet intake with friends, and bought about 4-5 kilos of my favourite German sweets (to be eaten over half a year of course), only to take an incidental look at Tara's set of very young beautiful teeth two days later, and spot a cavity that was a cavity-beyond-any-doubt. Ah, those sweets, that fruit juice all day long, that lack of cooperation with teeth brushing until just after she turned three, and quite clearly also a bad genetic starting point (with ME ME ME to thank for it).
So, with a heavy heart, I arranged for dentist (got one straight away, which is lucky), and a visit within the week. I resolved not to let anyone drill - JUST advice at the first visit! - then picked my girl up from nursery, and took her to the dentist where she bravely sat on the big magic chair all by herself, opened her mouth and had her teeth counted. 20 teeth, one cavity. And two minutes later I'd signed permission for the dentist to drill. Great one for consistency and resolve, mum. Tara was promised a sticker and let the dentist "brush her teeth with a special brush", but when it came to water and air she ended her cooperation promptly. So now she has a hole without filling that's bigger than the cavity was, has food getting stuck in it whenever she eats, and remembers that she does not want to lie down on the magic chair and doesn't like air and water either. Great.
She was very pleased with her big sticker though, paraded it through nursery and her home, played dentist for the rest of the day and declared that her tooth was much better now.
Still, we need to go back and have the job finished asap, and I'm feeling awful for letting anyone drill against my plans, and knowing that Tara lacked the maturity to go through with it all (actually, she did shockingly well). Bad mother - I'm feeling utterly gutted.
There is some ocnsolation in being told that the cavity would be at least 6-12 months old, which means it predates our sweet habit, potty training bribery and excessive consumption of fruit juice.

I bet everyone else is thinking, what's all this fuss about something so relatively minor. But still.... *sniffle* I had such high hopes and aspirations for her teeth. I have such bad ones and the dentist was the horror of my childhood and now is one of the horrors of my savings. What can I say... Tara, darling, you did great. There'll be a fat lovely present when we have the job finished. And much much fewer sweets from now on, and forget about undiluted fruit juice!

Baby Prep

Nearly there: One month to Due Day.

Mummy
With only 4 1/2 weeks to go to The Big Event, I'm thinking almost exclusively about rearranging furniture and buying missing baby bits (moses basket, cot bumper, changing table etc). Quote Jose: "You get to rearrange your bedroom once you're past the magic date after which you're allowed the home birth" - as if that had anything to do with anything. But I can wait another 9 days I guess, and obsess about cot bumpers, glider chairs (and where to put them), or how to get the over-the-(not yet present) changing-table mobile attached to the rather high ceiling.
I'm not thinking exclusively about scrubbing the top of curtain railings or the underside of kitchen cupboards yet, nor have I even considered ironing any of the about 58 baby vests we somehow have accumulated (HOW?!!) so there's hope that there's plenty time to achieve all before the big day. Uh, never mind the Filling Of The Freezer With Wholesome Homemade Tasties (if only I could cook!).

Getting Tara's baby clothes out (the hat no longer fits)

Tara sporting her first top, size 'early baby'*

I've dreamt about having him twice already, and looking at "his face" in the one dream was a special treat that made my day before it had even started.
I still can't really believe that I'm going to have a son, but different from the week we found the gender out, I'm no longer scared, stunned and intimidated by it but simply in awe. A boy! Wow.
I can't wait to meet him, and I can't wait for the pregnancy to be over. It's not been as physically pleasant as the first, and how it it have been, with a job and a child and a household to look after. It's been more painful, more uncomfortable, more tiring with greater weight gain, and stretch marks starting not two days before the due date but two whole months before. I'm more worried about the birth than I was before because I ascribe the great uncomplicated ease of Tara's birth to the high levels of fitness I'd worked up in the years before, and the've plummeted considerably since.
Maternity leave is scheduled to start ten days before the bub is due, and while I hope that he'll be a little early (please, and don't get too big in there either, please!), I'm also hoping that I'll have few days of rest just to myself (how nice would that be?!).
I'm looking forward to having a baby again, I can't wait to have my boy, I'm looking forward to a home birth, and I've just spent an hour browsing a home birth web site, cause that's what it will be this time!

Papi
Serves all-weekend two-parent-duty so The Pregnant Lady can rest, knock herself out at the gym doing her remaining weekly low-input class and soak in a bath. Also, on driving duty from one baby shop to the other (luckily there aren't many about), and the remaining closest GAP shop on the outskirts of London (local GAP coverage is a scandal). Push chair assembley and all associated mechanical tasks, of course, are the man's, as are the occasional dish washing rounds when The Pregnant Lady can't be bothered. Other duties are clipping my toe nails and occasionally getting my socks on me. Last, but not least, Papi serves as sounding board for potential names, and it is crucial to note that although he claims the right to reject any old name he dislikes, he makes no suggestions. The first name has been agreed and in full use for the last 3 months at least. The second / middle name is still up in the air.
And now, behold: Man and child critically testing and assessing the (then) newly acquired push chair.


Tara
My gorgeous darling girl! I'll just quote her: "When my baby brother is coming out we're gonna love him and love him and love him." She pats the tummy and cuddles and kisses it, and speaks to her brother, not infrequently in German (how odd): "Hallo, is (ich) bin Tara. Is bin deine g(r)osse Schwester" (Hello, I'm Tara. I'm your big sister). And when the neighbour asks, what are you going to do when he cries? "I'm going to cuddle him lots."
Or how is this one: "Mami, is hatte einen T(r)aum (Mummy, I had a dream). Leo was here. Er hat mit Mami gekuschelt (he was cuddling with mummy)." Me: "And what were you doing?" Tara: "I was cuddling mummy."
She's got this whole loved-up scenario worked out in her head, best summed up by all of the above, along with what she told me today: "When my baby brother Leo is here, I'm not going to nursery any more." We'll be snuggled up, the three of us, all day long, there will be lots of kisses and cuddles, and when Leo goes in the push chair, Tara is going to be there with him, all tucked up under one warm big blankey.
She makes plans for him, she thinks about him, and she's practising with her babies. See?

Tara's baby Puppi trying out Leo's (Tara's old) clothes.

Ice-cream? Sharing and feeding, of course.

Home corner! One baby asleep in the crib, one jiggled on mum's knee.

And OF COURSE Baby Sofia comes shopping to try out the new kind of cart.

You get the idea. Well. Tara got the idea. She'll be the greatest big sister... once we've somehow dealt with our different ideas about her going to nursery (me) versus her staing at home (Tara)...

Leo
There we go: Tara's brother's name. I'm so used to calling him by his name it doesn't feel right to pretend he didn't have one yet, and call him 'baby'. Tara and Leo. Lovely. Jose keeps calling him Theo, but he'll surely get it right once Leo is there. He's quite an active little chap, my son, wriggling a lot more than I remember Tara wriggling. But then, he better wriggle a lot more still - until he's in a reasonable position that does not spell 'cesarian' and 'hospital'. I'm talking to him daily (nightly), but he's still horizontal rather than vertical, and the wrong way round to boot (his back to mine, as opposed to facing my back). I'm told I can encourage the correct position by scrubbing floors all day long, or simply getting down on all fours and wriggling gently with my bum. Sweet. Alternatively, I could swim all day long (breast stroke but no froggy legs) - not really feasible either. Leo, what are you up to? Get your head down and kick me some in the ribs like a good boy should! We ain't got that long now and your bed sure is made, and snuggly too (Tara is trying it out for you tonight).

PS.: I'm trying to get across to Tara that life with a new baby isn't all sweet and cuddly but can be boring at times. Her very own Baby Sofia already seems to have given her a taste of it:

Booooring!

Or is it more to do with mum and dad shopping forever, and Tara not having seen the sweets in the trolley?

* I had to bribe her for permission to take this photo: "I'm going to pay you three sweeties if you let me take that picture and give me a smile!"

Happy Birthday, Papi!

Dr. Daddy is turning 36 today. A good age to receive your first handwritten card from your little girl, who carefully copied P ("a stick with a nose") A ("a roof with a step") P and I ("a stick with a dot on top"), and equally carefully wrote out her own name on the inside of the card, to sign off on a "Papi and Tara... here's two googely eyes... Papi's nose... the legs... Papi, do you like my big smile?" No question, it's a treat, even though she could not finish singing her Happy Birthday cause she got distracted by having to immediately thrust a present at Papi, then blow out his candle, and go into an endless loop of requesting it be re-lit for more blowing-out.


To make the day extra special, we called Dr. Daddy home from work early cause Tara's leg hurt, she could not "walk very well", and had to be carried everywhere by Mummy and Baby. Luckily she experienced a miracle cure after mum called the doctor for an appointment, which unfortunately was after we'd called Jose home. Treat number one. Treat number two: Because we'd been too busy making him a cake and a card I'd not gotten round to washing any of huge pile of yesterday's dishes. He hates smelly kitchen mess (who doesn't). Treat number three: Cause we'd been too busy (see above, treat two), there was no dinner at all either. Thank heavens for takeaway treats, even though, treat four, the poor man had to go and collect the delivery due to the foreign gentleman at the other end of the phone being unable to get our address right (Me: "R. RRRR." Him: "Oh. O?" Me: "Let's make that a collection.").

Well, well, a fine day after all, Papi. While there's cake and love... Happy birthday, Papi!


The next special date for the family is Baby's birthday. Five weeks to go.