In which I blame the Universe. And Hormones.

How is it nearly October?  Sorry about that.  I did mean to post at least something over the past couple of weeks, but the bump is expanding at the rate of several kilos a week (at least that’s what it feels like) and in return is firing out MEAN hormones.  I am a horror. 

Mind you, I’m being given a good run for my money by my children, who are taking mean to new heights. Until about 2 weeks ago I was quite relieved that the Grubette was a she-Grubette;  girls are just so much easier, no?  Especially if your son is as, um, spirited (ahem) as the Boy. And then something happened -  the London water perhaps?  The Girl just suddenly became... a little bitch.  (Sorry Girl. I know you’ll read this in years to come and be horrified, but quite honestly...) Any minor transgression – real or imagined (such as brushing her hair; or – GOD FORBID – giving her a raspberry yoghurt INSTEAD OF A STRAWBERRY ONE) is greeted with screams and shouts and, usually, a pinch.  How has she learned to pinch?  It’s fucking annoying.  And sore. 

The Boy, meanwhile, is being a... what’s the male version of a bitch?  Anyway, he’s being FOUL.  At best he completely ignores us if he doesn’t like whatever we’re saying – (in fact his teacher suggested the other day that I get his ears tested;  IMAGINE if it was as easy as that...)  at worst he stands face to face with me, shouting horrible things.  Last weekend it got all a Bit Too Much;  the Girl was on the floor pinching my leg, he was standing on my feet roaring into my face, the Man was at the gym, the Grubette was practising the double-somersault.  I had an image of this being my life for the next 5, 10, 15 years and started to sob.  Head on the table, chest-heaving sobbing.  Man, it felt good.  But the best thing was that it absolutely stunned the kids frozen.  The pinching stopped, the roaring stopped.  The Boy even got off my feet. I didn’t dare to look up – or indeed calm down.  After a minute or so, the Boy said, in a teeny little voice:  “Mummy, I’ve never heard you crying before...”  By this stage I was thoroughly enjoying myself and saw no reason to stop.  He then started to rub my head, and the Girl my feet.  “Mummy,  don’t cry. We’ll stop being bad.”

And so they did.  (For about 15 minutes, but 15 minutes is better than none at all).

The Universe has also been a bit mean of late;  we’ve had various piddly little things which have been testing my patience (hahahaha, as if I have any patience at all).  Last week some stupid cock opened his car door just as I was driving by – a narrow, one-way street.  That his car was completely destroyed, as opposed to just marginally mangled like ours, is of little comfort to me.  Calling insurance companies is NOT how an 8-month pregnant lady wants to spend her time;  nor is delivering cars to be repaired, then waiting in for a replacement hire car (did I say car?  I meant pile-of-shit).  Meanwhile, I’ve been flat out busy getting a work project finished against a tight deadline, so very cleverly organised a temporary part-time nanny. She, however, is completely shit overwhelmed, and the kids – for want of a better word – hate are taking complete advantage of her.  AND she’s expensive.  So I’ve been spending my afternoons sitting in the “office” in the loft (office, in as much as it’s where the desk has been put.  Along with mattresses, a kitchen table, chairs, paintings, and dozens of boxes.  It’s a restful place, as you can imagine.) listening to them run rings around her, shrieking and wailing while she pleads with them – loudly - to  PLEASE SIT DOWN.  I’m no expert in these things, but I suspect that I could do better (or at least, not worse), for free.

Things started to settle down yesterday, hurrah!  The work project was done, the kids’ grandparents were here, we were due to go out to celebrate the Man’s sister’s engagement, his brother’s birthday, and all other good things. We just needed to get to 7pm without calamity.  Ha.  I changed the Girl, picked her up – how?  I’ve gone over it in my head dozens of times, and still can’t be sure how I did it, if it was even anything that I did – and she started to cry and rub her arm. “My elbow,” she shrieked.  Then started to sob and wail.  Her arm was hanging at a funny angle, her little finger sticking out strangely.  Within an hour – because I’m nothing if not highly strung quick-thinking –  we were at A&E, then she was being x-rayed and then, with a slight flick of the wrist, a doctor popped her dislocated elbow back in.  It was amazing.  The crying – non-stop for 2 hours – stopped immediately (at least hers did), and her arm worked again.  We made it out for dinner, and I thought – not for the first time during this pregnancy – of just how drunk  I am planning on getting in three weeks’ time.

I could of course get drunk tonight:  it’s the MAD Blog Awards!  (That would get me noticed...) So it isn’t all doom and gloom.  AND I’ve been given a taste of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous by having a frock – a real, grown-up, pretty frock – delivered to my door for the event, by the lovely folk at Seraphine. Check it out: 

(Now remove that gorgeous creature from the above image, imagine instead Nancy Regan - with mud on her face - wearing it, and insert a prize-winning pumpkin (stalk protruding) where her abdomen once was.  Still a beautiful dress tho’.)

I DO have a recipe for you.  But I also have a hair appointment (the dress deserves some effort) and have to run.  I will let you know how the evening went, if I did get drunk and vomit down my front (I suspect I won’t, but you never know) or if the evening is ruined by the Girl mangling herself in some bizarre way or other before I even get out the door.  Watch this space.