Pucker up

Midwives are magic Zen masters.

They exude an air of calm and leave you treats of mental time to spare.

So when one sees a midwife spring into huffy action making speedy appointments on your behalf, using phrases like ‘low fluid’ and ‘handing you over to the gynaecologist’, your heart beats that little bit less comfortably and the time to spare evaporates.

Yesterdays midwife visit was one such moment. ET is big and round, and only getting bigger and rounder. In an attempt to measure the baby the midwife had doubts over the level of amniotic fluid she could feel and thought it better to arrange an ultrasound to be on the safe side.

So there we found ourselves once again staring up at a grainy screen having unidentifiable body parts pointed out to us against a whooshy soundtrack. It transpires that all is well and the midwife’s caution was just her being thorough.

She was right on one point; it’s a big ‘un. Quite an odd shaped big ‘un by all accounts. With short wee legs, and a small head, it still manages to weigh more even now than most newborns do thanks to a ginormous belly.

We are basically breeding a Jerry Springer guest. A short arsed fatty. At least we will save on the cost of a paternity test.

As we left she semi-jokingly commented that it could easily arrive tonight.

That remains to be seen, but in the meantime this isn’t a bad sight to tide us over.

1 week, 6 days.

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.