Turning you off your cereal

I'm impotent. Or maybe omnipotent. Or omnipresent perhaps, I forget.

Some one of those anyway, but basically I'm in many places today. Here, and somewhere deep in the bowels of today's Irish Times health section.

Early last year they featured an article about our attempts to conceive, and today they ran a short catch-up piece for the sane people with jobs who don’t read here every day.

Complete with picture that makes me look like an anaemic wino with a glandular problem, and a title that will nauseate many, today's article can be found here.

For the lazy among us, the original feature was run last March and a follow up based on the reaction it generated ran a few days later.

As you were.

Far more entertaining are the guesses being placed here. Go on, give it a shot.

The klossen

They were bloody heavy.

I carefully picked my step across the car park, sadistically enjoying each fresh crunch of snow under my feet while fearing the inevitable slip that would send me arse over tit. Any comfort that the close proximity of the hospital brought was overshadowed by the public nature any fall would now take, not to mention the severe battering I would undoubtedly suffer under the weight of my cargo.

They really were bloody heavy.

As the fall never came, I bundled the contents of my embarrassingly aching arms into the back of the car, and just 14 hours later I’d completed the 15 minute drive home through the snow.

Upstairs, I pulled them apart and arranged them out on the floor.

The 'klossen'.

There were 6 of them. 10 inches tall, grey rod iron, like miniature Eiffel towers.

One by one I slid them into position, and corner by corner I lifted our bed a foot off the ground and aligned the klossen underneath the legs.

Ironically, the act of installing them so that the kraamzorg doesn't damage her back while looking after ET has probably ensured another 18 months at our friendly neighbourhood chiropractor for me. Beds are heavy.

So now the silly turns to absurd, and the 5 foot tall incubator living with me has to use a plastic step to get in and out of bed. I’m just waiting to be awoken by the sound of her smashing her face off the radiator on the way to the bathroom at 4am.

Not one to be bogged down by minor negatives like nocturnal head injuries, there are upsides. I finally have the top bunk that I always wanted, and my bedroom is home to the coolest fort ever.

2 weeks, 2 days.

Wednesday next we have a midwife visit where she might reveal great mysteries, or maybe not, so until then you can get your guesses in here.

Footsoldiers

I’m on hoof duty.

Another seldom spoken of characteristic of late pregnancy is the inability to remove one’s own footwear. Several times a day I have a heel thumped onto my thigh with the command to ‘take it off’.

Thankfully, this week’s beauty parlour session included a pedicure, so the trotters that I am faced with the task of undressing are fine specimens. I suspect the pedicure was only thrown in to distract ET while the landscaping crew were changing shift, but I’ll take all the help I can get.

This role has enlightened me, made me wiser. I understand now that the term ‘barefoot and pregnant’ is not an indication of status, but rather an sign that the lady in question couldn’t convince anyone to drop to their knees at the flash of a hoof.

The putting on and removal of socks, slippers, and shoes all fall under my remit, none are tasks to be taken lightly. Pitfalls are many, and traps are easy to plunge into. You pull from the band, not from the toe. Socks must be ‘unrolled’ onto the feet of the fire breathing incubator. Any other method risks the unseemly catching of cotton and toenail, and guarantees your head will be slammed against the side of the desk.

The symbolism of the stance that is taken to perform these duties is not lost on me. Man taking position at a pregnant woman’s feet, adoring, serving, and obeying, but mostly terrified of getting a flat heeled shoe to the temple.

This little piggy patrolman fears for his well being.

2 weeks, 6 days.

Quick, time is ticking, if you haven't pinned your pink or blues to the mast, do so here.