the eu referendum and maternity leave

Maternity leave, at least until your baby actually arrives, is a weird sort of limbo where you don't do anything, but feel as if you should be doing something.

Make no mistake, last week was sensational. I was clocking two naps a day, snacking almost continuously from the fridge, and meeting up with mummy mates who don't work, for coffee and shopping breaks.

Meeting mum friends for coffees, without the distraction of my 2 year old, is a first for me. While Sebby was at nursery, me and a mate cruised the aisles of Peter Jones in Sloane Square for Father's Day gifts and dribble bibs. I could actually go to a shop and browse. Look at shit. Walk. Stop for cake.
It's a wonderful sort of purgatory, that you know will only be a matter of weeks, but it's more relaxing than any holiday I've taken in two years.

I have also booked in the day I will have her. C section is booked in for 12 July. That's in three weeks. Yup, when I sit and really think about this, I freak out. In three weeks, it's going to be chaos. All this muffin-eating, shop-hopping, nap-having freedom - doing stuff for me - will abruptly be over. For years to come.

This week, things have ramped up a little. My mother has come over, and we are starting to get into packing mode. We should hopefully be able to move on 29 June. We will know today or tomorrow for sure. I mean, we are inching so close to the finish line, I can smell the sweat. Just a few more signatures and we can go. I can almost touch and taste it. COME ON.

I just hope I can discipline myself enough to step back from the packing and boxing process, and let them get on with it. The Control Freak Me wants to watch everything, make sure nothing gets broken, bumped or stolen, and it's all packed into the right boxes. The Pregnancy 36-38 Week Mama Me knows that the best thing to do in this situation is back the fuck off and leave for the day.
Having mum here is meant to help, but it's not helping like I'd hope: she stresses more than I do.

In the big, wide world outside of our moving and baby bubble, the country is poised, on its knees, while the Leave and Remain campaigns rage on.
The EU Referendum campaigning has really really annoyed me. You cannot trust a thing any politician has to say, as they are blatantly feathering their own nests, and, from both sides, throwing out inaccurate and misleading figures and facts. Both preying on fears; economy versus immigration.

And let's not even go into the vicious murder of MP Jo Cox.

While I've always been a 'mostly Remain' kind of girl, I have ventured across the line to Leave a few times. Then back again. Then on the fence. Then unsure. Now sure. I've entertained most scenarios. I believe most people have, and are. My Brit is still largely undecided, but leaning into Remain.

I withdrew from listening to the debates with any seriousness a few weeks ago, and have only looked at third party or 'expert' opinions, and myth debunkers. I'm only listening to people who don't have an agenda, and who actually know what they're talking about. 

The conclusion I have come to is that both campaigns are inherently evil.

While one we would cast a vote in complete darkness, not knowing the future; the other is casting a vote for something we know won't really change. (If Cameron hasn't managed to change it in his negotiations now, why would he if we continue to Remain?)

So I've chosen to vote for the one I think is slightly less evil than the other; the one that has slightly more credibility and stability than the other, and the one that would suit mine and my family's needs for the future - because that's what this is about. The businessmen that support Remain do so because it is in their interests; Richard Branson, for example. So while Remain gets my vote on Thursday, it only just gets my vote.

I'm in.

I believe that the UK will remain in. The population tends to go for status quo; and the poster children for Brexit aren't exactly credible. Besides, I do dream of one day retiring in the sun in France or Spain if my final days allow me.

And that's not because they branded my child with a sticker on the streets over the weekend.

(And no coincidence that he is sporting an ice cream moustache - of the authentic Italian gelato variety.)