In the garden store:

Him (hoisting shovel): Hey! We could add this to our arsenary.
Me: Um - arsenary?
Him: Oh, you know… er…
Me: Arsenal? Armoury?
Him: Oh. Armoury.
Me: Hee hee hee hee hee.
Him: I guess I just made an arsenary of myself.

****

(After sudden thought that one should check that ‘arsenary’ is not in fact not a Himism at all.)

Me: Okay, I’ve checked now and ‘arsenary’ isn’t in the OED.
Him: Who said it was in the OED.
Me: What then? Your mental dictionary?
Him: It’s in the appendium.
Me: Appendium?
Him: …
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Good karma swop:

Me: Arrrggghhh my thighs look like tree trunks!
Him: Stop bigging up your twigs.

*****

Him: What kind of road closure is this??
Me: The kind where you can’t get through.

I often feel like I have an enormous amount to write about, and then I come to try and put words to screen, and realise that so much of it is so mundane, like a joke you have to explain, so much self-obsession, or much more well-written about by somebody else.

Anyway, I’ve decided that this is not one of those times, so I’ll tell you about how at nearly week 39 of pregnancy I have put on nearly a third of my pre-pregnancy weight, which is particularly noticeable when trying to roll into and out of bed (though I must pride myself on my latest achievement of actually being able to get elegantly in and out of our RAV4). However, 12 kilos, give or take a couple, seems to be about the standard weight gain I’ve been quoted both anecdotally and in books, and also everyone from the cashier at the supermarket (oh look, I nearly typed spermarket, badum tish) and the local organic store to random passers-by keeps telling me that I’m ‘all bump’ which is codespeak for ‘you haven’t morphed into a beached whale’. Hurrah! Right before starting to look a little worried just in case they’re going to be called upon as an impromptu midwife within the next ten seconds.

Although it’s really anyone’s guess as to whether the little one arrives tomorrow or in two weeks, he’s nearly fully engaged and I’ve been falling prey to all manner of things typifying looming labour, so I think we’re on the home stretch now! So the bags are packed, the bathroom is gleaming, I got inordinate pleasure out of a snazzy new iron after our ten-year old one finally conked out at the weekend, and I’ve been whizzing my way through baby books galore. I think I’ve figured out which way is up and how not to drop the baby, and we’ll leave the rest up to the grace of God.

Off to clean the cloakroom now.

Tee hee.

In other news, 8 weeks to go, and I am completely knackered. But the little one is growing very well, according to my midwife this morning, and he is, very pleasingly, in the right position. He’s also got his feet wedged under my ribs at the moment. Hurrah! (ow.)

There is someone I encounter fairly regularly, though truth be told I barely know her, who just perplexes bemuses annoys the hell out of me, and I’m trying to decide whether I’ve turned into a model of intolerance or whether I actually have cause to be perplexed/bemused/annoyed.

She started out by offering unsolicited advice on what not to do in pregnancy, and asking me whether I was experiencing morning sickness, etc. Then more recently, out of the blue she suddenly asked me ‘how are your ankles’. Then she randomly invited me along to lunch with someone else, which I regret to say I rather ungracefully and rapidly declined. But today she has really got on my wotsits by asking how on earth a tiny thing like me could possibly eat the massive amount I was warming up in the microwave for my lunch. Which is exactly what a pregnant lady coping with an expanding bum and thighs needs to hear. And it was only a jacket potato with some filling plopped on the top.

Bwarrrrrrrrggghhhhh.

Is it just me being tetchy? I am normally unfailingly polite with people even when they are being muppets but she makes me want to just ignore her completely. Which is kind of what I did today, again much to my shame.

I would just like to say that Mr B’s Emporium, 14-15 John Street, Bath, BA1 2JL, is one of the bestest bookshops in the world. Go make them some money if you’re in the area.

(Taken from http://myplaypen.blogspot.com/)

A dragonfly has 6 legs, and a spider has 8 legs. There are 20 bugs and 144 legs. How many dragonflies and how many spiders are there?

Can someone tell me how you are supposed to solve this without using algebra??

I have 8 weeks of work left before I go on maternity leave, and think I am beginning to understand why so many people say they wish they had stopped working sooner. At nearly 29 weeks I seem to be developing a whole host of pregnancy cliches like unstable hips; a growing inability to put on my shoes, cut my toenails or turn over in bed properly; or sleep without dreaming of serial killers/giving birth within two seconds in a supermarket/eating multiple eggs before realising I’m not supposed to eat egg whites and then having to contemplate heaving up the lot.

I am also walking like a little old lady and have had to abandon all my 3-inch heels in favour of not falling head over heels down/up the stairs/along the corridors at work. Having said that I was quite chuffed to have been told twice in the past week that I was looking fabulous, so I clearly deserve some brownie points for not having given up completely (not just yet, anyway).

It has also taken some adjustment being a bit cuddlier and less angular than normal. Half of me is sensible and realises that without the extra padding, six months and more of exclusive breastfeeding as per the plan is probably going to result in something akin to a shrivelled crone. The other half looks in the mirror and thinks ARRRGGGGHHH LOOK AT THOSE THIGHS. Then I come full circle and decide that the pregnant body is actually an incredibly sexy and womanly creation and I should really be enjoying it while it lasts. On the whole, that last mindset is the one I think I’ll stick with.

Perhaps the biggest change, though, is the inability that I seem to have developed to get truly stressed, together with having acquired the gift of a proper work-life balance. This is why I am blogging after having gone shopping and for a nice lunch, when the actual plan for today was to finish typing up a set of notes and get a speech well underway, and why, at 15:23, I think I might go and have a nap soon. Somehow things will get done. And they do.

On deciding on a cot-bed:

Me: I know the Stokke Sleepi isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But I still can’t stop thinking about it. But then again the Boori or King Parrot ones look a lot sturdier and better-made.
Him: I’m much more inclined to get a well-made piece that will last - especially when little boys are inclined to jump on beds.
Me: He won’t jump on the bed.
Him: I’ll remember that when I hear you yelling at him.
Me: Oh, I’m not going to yell. I plan to practise the quiet intimidation brand of motherhood.

It’s 1pm and I’ve only just realised that I put my trousers on back to front this morning.