Week 33
As of last week the fruit comparisons are back. This week, the baby is the size of a pineapple. Should I be nervous that I’m carrying around something with a very spiky head?
Weekly conundrum
To share my madness or to keep it to myself? Since I posted about the ‘Fanjeeta First Aid’ spray, I have had a few requests to share the contents of the concoction. I have to preface this with a disclaimer: I tend to err on the more alternative side of things when it comes to medicine, balms etc. and will generally see a homeopath before my GP. Medicine certainly has it’s place (ode to the epidural) but I like the earthy stuff too, especially for pregnancy and babies. So, I am using this because basically, I’ll try anything. I’m not a homeopath, a doctor or a shaman so if you decide to magic up this spray, it’s all on you, ok?
For the sake of common decency and the fact that not everyone refers to their lady bits in such brash terms as I do, let’s rename it. Let’s go with something like Postpartum Recovery Spray:
You’ll need:
- 4 tbsp. filtered water
- 6 tbsp. witch hazel
- 3 tbsp. aloe vera gel (leftovers from your holidays are fine)
- 6 drops frankincense essential oil
- 3 drops clary sage essential oil
Put everything into a spray bottle (a glass one will preserve the integrity of the oils) and give it a shake before each use. My gynae friend got the recipe from a homeopath during part of his medical training in the US and swears by it to speed up recovery. The witch hazel is a toner, aloe vera gel soothes, frankincense heals tears and irritation and clary sage relieves cramping. That sounds like a recipe for much happier lady bits.
For real relief, keep it in the fridge once you get home from the hospital. Use it each time you use the loo and directly on to those ever-so-sexy maternity pads. You’re welcome!
Weekly low
Here’s a very simple equation:
Big baby belly = off-balance centre of gravity + flip flops + steps = how to fall UP a stairs. I don’t know which was worse. The actual bounce that I took or the shame of having to rock over to the maternity and explain how you manage to fall up a stairs. I wasn’t badly hurt and could feel El Bambino moving away afterwards but as I’m rhesus negative, I had to call the maternity. Basically, with a negative blood type, any internal bleeding could cause the mom’s body to build antibodies against the baby’s (more likely in subsequent pregnancies) so it needs to be checked out. The midwives were extremely thorough. I had to pop over to the maternity at lunchtime to be monitored and scanned, and come back 24 hours later for an ‘anti-d’ injection. With the injection, the midwife gave me a choice of the arm or butt cheek, but suggested the latter as I could get a ‘dead arm’. That should have alerted me to two things – it was going to hurt and I would also have a dead butt cheek. I waddled back to work with a numb rear end and a bruised ego but, as I accepted very early in pregnancy, dignity disappears with your waist line. The offending flip flops landed in the charity shop bag later that evening and now I take the stairs like an arthritic snail.
Weekly high
I’m having great fun with baby names. Number one, I get to play the veto game with my husband but because I know what sex the baby is, there’s a fair amount of faking going on. We throw out three names each but only one can be vetoed. I thought we both liked Jewish names until ‘what about Malachy for a boy?’ came from the other couch last night. Malachy because, yes, I’m about to give birth to a 70 year-old Catholic priest. ‘But we could call him Mal’ was the rationale. He has vetoed most of my top girl names (apparently Maud and Mabel are granny names, Betsy sounds like a lady of the night and Eppie sounds like a disease) and just refuses to accept that Atti is a great name for a boy. Even I realise that we can’t name a boy Atticus Finch so I thought Atti would go down well as a compromise.
Apparently not. Number two in the fun of baby names is how free people are with their opinions. Here’s the thing – you can tell someone at 33 weeks pregnant that Esme is your preferred girl name and she will grimace, shake her head and say something along the lines of ‘it’s a bit out there, I really don’t like it’. However, when you present 2 day-old baby Esme to the same lady all she can say is ‘oh that’s a beautiful name’ (and later tell her husband that she always suspected you of being a bit odd).
Considering that my father landed over to the maternity when I had my son, read the medical card on the cot and bellowed ‘vacuum, who the hell would call a baby Vacuum?, I’m just hoping this baby isn’t a forceps delivery.
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