I read in some context or other a quote by, of all people, Fern Britten the other day (she is the current Queen of daytime TV in the UK). She has 4 kids and is a tad overweight. Her point was (approximately) "I have four kids, where do you think my priority comes? Last. Therefore dso not tell me to go on a diet, or do anythngi fancy to look after myself, because I won't have time to think, never mind do whatever".
I empathise entirely. Last time round, I would smear apparently wonderful vitamin e cream to help my stretch parks (excuse me while I die laughing at the irony of that) and anti-varicose veins legs treatment on twice a day, every day. Now I'm lucky if I manage to do either, once a week at best.
Total exhaustion has an amusing way of restricting one's ability to be personally selfish. As a result, I won't actually describe to you the full on varicose horrors of my right leg. It's the kind of thing that makes me shudder with the grossness of it. It's so bad in places it hurts, so I have to, somehow find time to whack the old Aesculus gel on, before I end up with a permanent, long and winding road wiggling it's way behind my knee and up my calf.
In other news I seem to be absolutely enormous, which is slightly distressing. I'm sure the complete lack of exercise (apart from when I'm around Nora of course) doesn't help. Again, last time around I would stroll every day through the delightful Dickensian spendour of backstreet Clerkenwell and Smithfield to get on the train at Blackfriars, two stops down, giving me a good stretch every day. These days, it's belt home to pick her up from nursery or put her to bed, then collapse in a yawning heap.
I have begun to enter that zone of extreme dreaming, which many pregnant women have, and is as a result of sleep deprivation (I am yawning now as we speak). In the last three days I have: been amorous with John Snow (who was also Pete Docherty's step-father); been suffering from narcolepsy (and going to sleep wearing a giant sized version of Nora's sleeping bag) whilst staying with my friends D&Q who were living on a new-age internet-oriented hippy farm (and were obsessed with a game called "Entity"); and been invited to create the most awe inspiringly bad mime whilst my longstanding musical heroes The Divine Comedy played on a stage to a half empty back room of a pub.
All this, whilst waking up with tedious regularity to turn over and make myself more comfortable since yet again, my inner spirit level has elbowed me to say "You're lying on your back again, mate".
But. But. Well. I'm sure that many would say "all this as as nought because" at this point, but it's not quite the case. However, No.2 - you'll be pleased to know that at about 12.10 this morning, you fluttered for the first time. I say the first time, but you obviously flutter nearly all the time. That was the first time I have felt you. Quite deep down and near the front, a distinctly "two limbs scrabbling" fluttery feeling, just for a second, before you disappeared in to the sweet, juicy murk again.
It is pointless asking you to please restrict those flutters to daylight hours and preferably before 10.30, because I know that from here on in, it's only a matter of time before your night time acrobatics reach epic, skin-testing, and sleep removing proportions.