Thalia's fertility journey

Junior - 48 hours to go

I have three big posts I want to write, but I'm lying on my side trying not to moan too much from the haemorrhoid pain. I had really not appreciated before how agonising they were, but I think the minor experiences I have had were in a different place. These are, well, not. I'll spare you the fine details and since this is pretty much the only bad thing that's happened so far in this pregnancy, I cannot complain. But it hurts!

Today is my 'get prepped' day where I am going to get my legs (and other bits) waxed, hair done, pedicure etc. I am trying to recreate my last day pre-Pob where I had a lovely wander and felt all relaxed and happy. But I can't walk without wincing, it's deeply, unpleasantly hot in London (and in general the London buildings either aren't air conditioned, or have a hard time coping with this temperature), and I'm a bit stressed about the amount of stuff we have to do before turning up at the hospital at 7am on Thursday. Yes, we have a scheduled section. Although Junior turned out to be head down at the scan last week (having been head up at every other previous scan), my doctor was pretty clear that he was very unwilling to risk a VBAC given my age and the fibroids, and I didn't put up much of a fight. I did stretch his comfort zone to 39+1 rather than 38+1, but that was as far as he was prepared to go, and only then based on a good scan report last week that showed a grade 1 placenta and a baby following the growth curve, not to mention the lack of any oedema and my consistently fantastically low blood pressure (90/60 at most readings).

So we're on to meet Junior just under 24 hours from now.  I really don't feel ready, and goodness knows the house isn't ready - we had builders here until 2 weeks ago, we haven't yet decided on curtain fabric for Junior's room (not that he'll be sleeping in there for a while), let alone having any furtniture for him other than a chest of drawers, we can't find the one fan we have in the house, there are piles of ironing in the laundry room that are scaring me. But I have a stockpile of domperidone, I'm about to call Medela to order the breast pump, the cradle in our room has sheets on, and our nanny is booked to come in early on Thursday so that we can head off to the hospital. It is happening, whether we are ready or not.

The two more meaty topics I want to write, not sure if I'll be able to:

• Circumcision. It feels like a barbaric thing to do to a child. It is also a critical component of being jewish, however, and I don't want to rule out him deciding he wants to be observant - or making him feel that he can never be properly Jewish. I feel hypocritical in that we are not very observant, but part of me wants to keep this particular observance. H is vehemently against although understands its importance to religious identity. I don't know what to do. And I've read the stuff that says the baby doesn't cry etc., but I've also read the stuff that says that babies get a huge cortisol surge when it happens and often fall into a semi-coma. There is no doubt in my mind that it is traumatic, the health benefits are not there, and it will have long lasting effects. Help
• Breastfeeding. I'm pretty sure my experience will be closer to motel manager's than Kath's in terms of the second baby being better at it. That is, that we will still have a supply issue no matter how good he is at sucking. I just don't know if I should wait to start the domperidone or just start taking it straight away after the birth. Thoughts?

I'm off to see how painful having a shower will be. Will update from the hospital if not before.

Colourful Pob

We've been talking to Pob about colours for a while. Just when I think she's getting it she indicates that it's all pretty random. If she's asked what colour something is, she tends to say: "BLUE!" or alternatively "Pink-purple". If she's told no it's not, she rotates through other colours, usually 'ello', 'orange' 'een' in that order.

Last night I asked her what colour her pyjamas were. They're checked, white and red. She said 'BLUE!' and I said no they were red, and she pointed at the white bit and said, "No!" Which indicated that she had at least some clue. So I told her it was like Elmer, but with fewer colours. Elmer is checked red, purple, black white, orange, yellow, pink, green and blue, and her pyjamas are checked red and white. We left it at that.

This morning we were talking about her blocks. I asked her what colour a block was and she said 'orange!' which it was. So I asked her what colour her pyjamas were, and she said 'Elmer!'

She may be colour blind, but she makes connections....

General incompetence

I've reached the awkward, tiring, uncomfortable stage of pregnancy. And indeed the stage of general incompetence. I can't remember words. I'm so bunged up that I can't breathe by about 5am and so wake up and cant' go back to sleep. I'm exhausted in the evenings and can't make conversation with H. And, oh yes, I fell flat on my face while simply walking along the pavement on Sunday, and now have an impressive scar running down my nose, and another on my chin, which makes me look like a very depressing kind of victim. I can see people eyeing me up and not wanting to say anything, but it's a bloody great scar, particularly on the bridge of my nose, so it's pretty hard to avoid.

It was an odd accident. We were walking along the South Bank to meet some friends. H was wheeling Pob in her pushchair. She was crying for some reason we couldn't quite understand. There were quite a few people around, but it's a wide space and so not that crowded. I felt myself trip. I wasn't that worried. It all happened in slow motion.

Moment 1: It's the kind of trip you correct easily with a little skip, and keep going.
Moment 2: Oh dear, I'm still falling. Ah well, if I just move like this I'll be upright again in a second
Moment 3: Nope, still falling
Moment 4: Well, I'll just land on my knees here and that will be that
Moment 5: Nope, still going down, what's WRONG with me?
Moment 6: Well, how did my face get there. Ooops, there go my sunglasses. And why is that packet of tissues in my hand?

It must have looked quite dramatic as two police on patrol came over to check on me. I got straight up. Of course Pob was screaming at this point, so I got H to get her out of her pushchair and hand her to me. I felt very shaken but ok. My glasses were trashed. I carried Pob into Tate Modern, met our friends, and took a few minutes to stop feeling wobbly. It was only later when I went to the loo that I realised I looked pretty dodgy, and the following day as the scars formed I looked even worse.

I then started to notice I was wobbly at other times. On the escalator on Monday when I went to hitch up my crappy maternity jeans that always fall down. Getting out of a taxi yesterday. Walking up the stairs into a hotel. I'm no longer a competent walker. Or stander. That's not very impressive, surely?