25

The wife squatter turned twenty five weeks old yesterday.

By all accounts, it now weighs just short of 2lbs, or just under a kilo for those of you who are, well, Dutch.

All the wee bugger’s organs are present and correct. I now have a fully qualified donor match! It’s kind of like having your own vegetable patch.

I do jest of course, something I seemingly must explicitly express for those among us who’ve had transplants of their own of a humourous variety.

Anyway, all the baby’s bits and pieces are in place, its skin doesn’t look like greaseproof paper anymore, and it even has wee tooth buds forming in its gums. Hopefully it’s listening to me whispering at it in the dead of night to come out biting when it does arrive.

All junior needs to do now, is grow. Sit back on its mother’s bladder with its feet up on her spleen, gorge itself on amniotic fluid, and just grow. Grow, grow, and grow some more.

You have the hard part done kiddo, now you just got to do what comes naturally to those unfortunate genes of yours, get chubby.

After 25 weeks, take off the boil, and simmer for 15 more.

Absolutely flabulous

It’s a boy.

If you ‘carry low’, that is. It’s a girl if you carry high. That’s what they say isn’t it?

What is it if you carry low and high depending on the day of the week?

This kid just won’t sit still. From an upright position last week, it seems to have started to nosedive in an attempt to take up a more horizontal position. All of which is resulting in a distortion of ET’s belly.

With the placenta behind the baby, all movements are being felt more pronounced, and even seen. On a couple of occasions ET’s gut looked like the cranium of a bald man who’d fallen head first down the stairs.

Touching this massive protruding lump is nothing short of freaky.

What I hope is the child’s head seems to push right out, almost grapefruit sized in feeling. With a wee push back, the kid takes the hint and shuffles back into another less Sigourney Weaver-esque position.

Incidentally, if it’s not his or her head, and happens to be their backside, then it’s immediately Atkins for kiddo upon its arrival. How will we ever be able to trot around town with a baby with a muffin top?

Skinny jeans from baby GAP wouldn’t make it over its thighs, junior Jimmy Choo’s would pinch its chubby ankles, and muscle tops just wouldn’t cut it with baby-man boobs.

As part of the birth plan we’ll have a pediatric personal trainer on hand to work on the flab and Baby Botox injections will be readied in case junior emerges with chicken lips. All this alongside a stylist prepared to pluck or shave or highlight or curl as needs be, while hair colour will be adjusted to compliment the bedding.

Only the best looking baby can be allowed to take up residence in a room, the unventilated painting of which seems to have caused me to sneeze ‘milk-white’ and hallucinate doorbells.

I need a lie down.