In a rare moment of tranquility, Sebastian contemplates the life of ducks.
Seven - the number of commutes I have left into work.
33 - the number of weeks I am. Heightened awareness in comparing my last pregnancy - Molly had stopped growing now.
1 - scan tomorrow. And possibly booking in the day this little baby will make her appearance.
1 - 'VBAC' appointment. In case I do go into labour before then, or suddenly decide I want to do this all via birth canal. (Vaginal Birth After C-Section. They tell me what to expect basically. And I will tell them in turn, that I expect an epidural and a shorter labour this time around, thanks.)
12 - estimated number of tantrums Sebastian had this weekend, with the absence of his father. (The Brit went on a lad's winetasting weekend to Burgundy. Not resentful about this at all.) Sebby has now realised that there is, in fact, something growing in my massive belly, and has started waking up in the middle of the night to have a massive tantrum (these are especially fun at 3:00 in the morning), or otherwise throughout the day with screaming and hitting and kicking. Let's just say it wasn't the relaxing son-mother bonding bank holiday weekend I was hoping for, not through lack of trying.
4 - the approximate time in weeks that we are told we may actually move into our new house. Give or take a few massive hurdles to jump before getting there; and crossing fingers these all come right.
5 - the approximate time in weeks that I may have this baby.
1 - entire chocolate swiss roll. I devoured. Myself. This weekend, unilaterally, out of boredom and stress.
800 - the amount of times I thought about socialising/calling people/making an effort, and then realised that I couldn't be bothered. Too tired to bother.
And that, in the near future, with a new baby and no time or sleep, the inclination to want to socialise would be even less, so actually I should just batten down the hatch and for the next five years, live comfortably as a hermit trying to survive through the exhaustion and feeds without feeling like I need to call anyone back.
1 - that said, did see a lovely friend yesterday. An old friend from school, who bought along her children to play with Seb (who, with this distraction, was extremely well-behaved - obviously.) So sometimes it does help to make a teensy bit of effort. Sometimes.
1 - whole year. That's how long I'm (likely) to be on maternity leave. It may be slightly less, but it may turn out to be a year. We will see how it goes. It's quite a long time off work....
3254759 - Houzz and Pintrest boards I've created while fantasising about our new house.
98753876 - tables I am fantasising about dining around.
567 - annoying thoughts about people who always seem to somehow land their bums in the butter. Without having to work too hard for it. Somehow they managed to get the big house in the expensive area, the 2.0 kids with no birthing complications, who can be privately educated from when they're 4, the part-time working week, just like that. Because they're born rich. Or work in finance. While I don't believe we aren't privileged and lucky. I also feel like I work my ass off. Just to keep afloat. Just to pay the bills. Just to ensure the security of my children's future. To afford the mortgage on a house that we won't pay off until we are 75.
Most of these folks have nannies, and/or extra help. It's not like a resent them - well actually, after this weekend I kind of do - it's just that I feel that with all the working in the world, I still wouldn't be able to afford that.
And for some reason (read: pregnancy) this is really. Really. Ticking. Me off.
Never thought I'd be one to say it, but: fuck the rich.
Or the rich that just get whatever they want with minimal effort.
34 - feelings of guilt after sending Sebastian to the naughty corner at least five times this weekend.
7 - the amount of times I've thought about sleeping in the last hour.
7 - the amount of times I thought about the moment we meet our little girl for the first time, since I woke up this morning.