Saturday, 25 August 2012

The lack of baby is now getting to us all...

On Thursday Steve and I were walking by a newsagents.

Steve turned to me,

"I'm going to get a drink, want anything?"

I resisted the urge to shout 'yes! I want to give birth, give birth!' and instead politely declined.

I followed him into the shop.

Steve selected his drink, chose a bag of crisps and picked up a paper.

The man at the till told him the price: £1.94.

Steve rummaged in his pocket and brought out a handful of coins. He handed them over.

We waited as the man counted it; I scanned the magazine headlines, Steve studied the penny sweets.

Suddenly the man spoke.

"Ummmm... Sir? These two coins are not 10ps."

"They aren't?" Steve was surprised.

"No, they are World Cup France 98 collective coins."

"They are?" Steve blinked.

"They are", replied the man holding out his hand with them in, "And I am afraid we don't accept Paul Ince and Graeme Le Saux."

Monday, 20 August 2012

The insanity continues

I have often mentioned my lovely sister Alex on here before (occasionally known as Lola - don't ask, it is a long and complex sister story), what I have neglected to mention before is that she is insane. Completely so.

Stories about her are legendary.

She once got beaten up by a blind man with his white cane.

She accidentally duped Liza Minelli into thinking she was in a west end play.

During the Olympics she went to a handball game and excitingly sent us the link to iplayer so that we could see her brief moment of glory in the crowd. On the footage she is doing a little dance. By herself. Surrounded by other, seated, spectators.

She also does a kick ass impression of an ostrich and has her name in the credits of the last two Harry Potter films. She is all kinds of awesome.

So, thinking that the baby would be here by now (didn't we all....), she came up to see us this weekend.

In a conversation over tea, I asked how her lovely boyfriend Dan is; Dan, it should be worth mentioning, is an actor and currently starring in a play in the west end with Hannah Spearitt from Primevil and S Club fame. It is also worth noting that, as part of this play, Dan and Hannah have to kiss a little bit.

"Oh, he's fine", Alex starts, "In fact, I have hardly seen him,  I am so busy at work and so is he. He is at a wedding this weekend. Someone from Primevil's wedding. I can't remember if it is today or tomorrow..."

"Is it Hannah from S Club's wedding?" I ask excitingly (for, as we know, I am a loser for celebrity gossip).

"No", she replies, "Someone else's, Hannah can't even be there you know. Which is why I called NHS Direct."

The whole table turns to Alex, confused.

She blinks, "Oh, yes, Hannah has shingles, so I called NHS Direct to ask them what to do."

"Ummmm... doesn't she have her own people to do things like that for her?", someone ventures.

"What? No, not for her, for me. I rang up NHS Direct and asked them what I should do as my boyfriend regularly kisses someone with shingles and I was about to visit my sister who is very pregnant and may even have a newborn and I didn't want to pass on shingles or chicken pox."

"And what did they say?"

"She said it wouldn't be a problem but if she were me then she would stop my boyfriend kissing women who are sick. I didn't mention it was Hannah from S Club 7, I thought it would confuse matters."

And with that, she returned to her pasta.

Friday, 17 August 2012

This is what our evenings have come to

We were watching Midsummer Murders. We are rock and roll like that. This particular episode featured old Barnaby (still my fave over new) investigating the murder of an orchid collector (of course) and, to get help with some Latin translation, he employed the skills of a local monk. It is all happening in Midsummer isn't it?

Anyway, the appearance of this monk prompted Steve into thought...

"A monk! This must be an old one. We don't have monks anymore do we? I wonder why they died out?"

"Died out? They aren't a species! Anyway, there are still monks and nuns."

Steve, as usual, didn't believe me.

"No Liv, there aren't. They got rid of all the monks and their monkeries."

"Do you mean monasteries by any chance?"

"No. Monkeries. Where monks live. Monasteries are those ruined castle buildings with only half walls and no roofs."

"No, monasteries are where monks live. Some of them are ruins. Monkeries aren't anything."

"Doesn't matter - they don't exist anymore anyway. I refuse to believe it, there are no longer monks pottering about in brown robes beekeeping or anything."

Ten minutes later, with the help of Google, I had proved that yes, monks still existed, that there was, in fact, a monastery in Leicestershire with real life monks whose daily activities included beekeeping.

I gloated for a while until Steve also used Google to prove that a monkery was another accepted term for a monastery.

It doesn't make it better that we did this in the same living room on separate computers does it?

Cooler than cool, we are.

Thursday, 16 August 2012

I went to Asda

I mooched around, finding my items and headed to the tills.

While packing, the lady asked me when I was due,

"Two days ago," I cheerfully replied, popping some bagels into my bag.

She looked panicked,

"Umm... errr... two days ago? As in Tuesday?! Do you want to sit down?"

"I'm fine, honestly," I smile.

"Really though," she continues, "shouldn't you be at home, sitting, waiting?"

"I did that yesterday and all I achieved was feeling incredibly down and cross and bored with nothing to do. So today I have come here and stocked up on fun things to do," I point to the items I am packing, "I figure that, if I give myself interesting tasks; cookies to bake, films to watch, magazines to read, then the baby will come just as I start them. Sod's law and all that."

She blinks at me.

"Plus I needed toothpaste."

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

Never going to happen...

The nesting instinct is a myth.

I should know. I have been waiting for it to kick in for a while. It was always going to be remarkable for me, I mean, you remember my skankiness, right? But I was hopeful. You hear stories of women repainting their hallways, ironing curtains and scrubbing already clean floors, all because 'the nesting instinct just overcame them.'

It isn't true.

I mean, they did those things, sure, but not because of some primal instinct.


The truth is much, much more depressing.

It was while I was ironing all of Steve's shirts (a new low if ever there was one) that it first occurred to me, then, as I was hoovering under the chest of drawers, the idea grew a bit stronger, finally, as I was sewing labels into my youngest brother's new school uniform, it clicked.

I wasn't nesting! I was bored! Yep, it is my belief that women do not go on crazy cleaning sprees because they feel the need to make a perfect home for the baby, no, they are purely bored as hell.

I mean, when this nesting instinct supposedly kicks in, the vast majority of women will have been at home, off work and alone, for at least a week. And that is a long time with nothing to do. The usual fun things that fill your time are out; you don't want to go too far from home in case you go into labour, you get knackered walking too far so shopping isn't an option and seriously, there is only so much TV a girl can take. So you look around you and think, alright, I literally have no more excuses as to why I can't clean the bathroom.

And you give in.

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

Eviction process started...

So today is my official due date.

Too bad no-one told the baby that.

Having been convinced he would be early - I was early, Steve was early and I foolishly listened to everyone telling me that there was no way I was going to make it to my due date, I was just too big - I have now resigned myself to the fact that I will probably still be pregnant at Christmas.

I just don't understand why he doesn't want to be born yet.

I have explained to him that EVERYTHING is ready; we have built the pram, packed the bags, all his clothes are washed and put away, his moses basket is set up and ready, the house is clean and tidy, the Olympics are over so there are no distractions and, on Sunday, his Nana, Nanny and uncles even helped to put the owl decal up in his room.

We are ready!

But nothing.

I then decided to change tactic and telling all the things he is missing out on - Olympic closing ceremony (you missed the Spice Girls baby boy!! And Jessie J is a skin tight cat suit - you'll regret not seeing that when you are 15), a yummy takeaway pizza tea, a 4th birthday party with a real life Peppa Pig, Tilly the dog running into a ditch of water thinking it was grass and a big bonfire with your Dad and uncles.

Still nothing.

Bumping into my year 5 teacher on a walk, I asked her to shout at him to get out in her most scary voice, I mean, it petrified me as a 10 year old and we did whatever she said. But apparently Baby Parham is a tad more stubborn than me. Or else too scared.

I then tried bribery - yep, resorted to it before I am even a parent. I told him that if he came within 24 hours then I would let him have all the Pom Bear crisps he liked and maybe even some sweets.


So now, I am going to aggressively poke my belly until he puts in an appearance.

Has to be worth a shot.

Thursday, 9 August 2012

Day 9 of Maternity Leave

So... these are my towels.

It was while I was on the third round of washing/putting away today that I decided I ought to take a picture as they are so pretty in their mix of colours.

Alas, I am not like the co-ordinated ones amongst you whose towels are all the same. Mine are eclectic. I am certainly not like my lovely Aunty Joan who's whole bathroom is a deep turquoise, chosen specifically to go with her favourite Radox (she also marks each day of the week with a different alcoholic beverage, just one of the reasons she is my hero at 87 years of age).

Coincidentally, it was also during this third round of washing/putting away that I realised I really want this baby to come now as I may be going a bit insane. I mean, I have just done an entire blog post on my towels....

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

Day 8 of Maternity Leave

Steve got home.

"Steve, Steve!" I shouted.

"Good day?" He enquired.

I grab his hand and pull him to sit on the sofa.

"The best", I garble, "I was reading the phone book..."

He interrupts me, "Ummmm... why?"

"I was looking for someone called Enis whose first name began with P so that their name was like P.Enis." I explained.

"Busy day then?"

"Anyway, there is no-one in our area who has that combination, can you believe it?"

"Shocking", he said, looking particularly unshocked.

"Anyway again, I did find someone with an even better name.... Mr Poupard!"