Hello everyone. Just to warn you the “Not while you’re eating” and “Adult content tags” are switched on with a vengeance for this one because basically, it’s a monumental rant, followed by another one!

Woke up this morning ratty and fed up and wrote this.

More pissed off than the most pissed off pissed off thing.

1. I’m a wanker. I cut my fucking thumb. It seeps, it oozes it can’t get wet and I, who could already only achieve seven tenths of bugger all can now achieve fuck all without it stinging, bleeding and generally being a pain in the arse. Which reminds me, it makes wiping my arse nigh on impossible too.

2. Every little thing that should be simple is a monumental phaff. Every simple thing goes wrong, yeh, sometimes in an amusing way but I am running out of humour fast. Give me a fucking break. Just for one day.

3. I am tired because I haven’t slept because I had to go to the loo seven fucking times last night, partly because I needed to pee but mainly because I was in so much sodding pain I had to get up and walk about.

4. I have experienced pain so bad I couldn’t subsequently remember it (many people tell me labour will be like this). Tearing all the ligaments in one knee. I’ve had re-constructive knee surgery which, I can tell you is fucking painful, people. Carrying a baby should NOT hurt more than that. After the knee surgery I was taking 14 different pain killing pills each day. I can’t take painkillers because I’m pregnant so this pain, which is worse, comes as is – although my god I’m going to ask the sodding doctor.

5. I have three more arsing, bastard, sodding, fucking months of this agony to go.

6. I can’t walk because it hurts so I am going practically demented from lack of exercise by the time Muffin finally pops.

7. I have to wear a truss and it’s fucking uncomfortable it rides up taking my pants up with it.. yes tubi-grip has given me the hungriest arse in Britain. I am for ever yanking my pants (that’s my pants in the British my nickers sense) out of it.

8. Everyone else’s babies are kicking round their ribs, midriff etc. Mine has not kicked higher than four inches below my belly button. Theirs are moving around. Mine is lying at the bottom bracing himself and trying to push my pelvis apart… and it’s sodding working! He’s going to break the fucking thing at this rate.

9. How in the name of heaven am I going to cope with labour after three months of concerted agonising pain and no sleep? Even though with the truss and the physio it is better than it was.

10. Like tights, maternity clothes come in two sizes. Those which are too small and those which are so big they require me to use every safety pin in Britain to keep them up.

11. I have sinus and a runny nose – yet another of the joys of being pregnant – and I have had sinus and a runny nose for the last three fucking months. Another thing that aches then. My fucking face.

So. The main points again…

I’m fed to the back teeth of my trousers falling down the whole time.

I’m tired.

I hurt.

I am the size of a whale and the only guarantee I have is that I’m going to get bigger.

I am pissed off.

I left my hat at a friend’s house and won’t see them until after the winter – cf sinusitis section – it was the only thing that was working.

Ok so it’s later on and now I’m a bit less ratty.

I had a blood test, I had to drink lucozaide an hour before. I remembered. BUT I forgot to take my notes along. Normally no notes means no blood test but I rang Mr BC, explained what had happened and asked if he could drive up to the surgery to drop off the notes. He said he would. Having heard that the notes, though absent, were coming, the nurse was happy to take the blood anyway. Good because they had to be done this week and there wouldn’t be an appointment left if I didn’t get them done now.

I was fed up, in pain, pissed off with myself and practically in tears of frustration and impotent rage before I even started. Jeez, how do people deal with the early stages of dementia? The frustration must drive them into the arms of oblivion far faster than any aspect of the actual disease, itself.

I don’t think I’ve found being me this irritating since I was about 4 and trying to draw like a grown up. Actually, the complete frustration of just existing drove me bloody barking when I was 4. No wonder I had adhd.

Bloods done, I waited for Mr BC and the notes, oustide. He handed them over with one of his small smiles – all love and indulgence how does he do it – and my heart did a small somersault in time. He didn’t wait because I was on my bike. I handed them over to the nurse. Result. Blood tests sorted as they should be.

“Don’t stress. It’s not going to help you or baby.” Said the nurse but kindly, not in an annoying way. I realised I must look as flaky as I feel.

Cycled home via the supermarket to get a couple of things, nearly in tears of anger, pain, frustration and general pissed off ness oh yes and of course from churning rampant hormones. A light dawns.

Cure for blues = retail therapy.

So I stopped in the high street outside the lingerie shop. I need new bras, I have the four tit thing going on. Went in and asked for a 36G. She didn’t have one but she said she did have some feeding bras in a 38F. They were cut generously on the cup and small on the back, she said. Worth trying. I did it fits. I bought it. It was so comfy I wore it home. It feels better to have bosoms again, rather than dugs.

Having arrived home I set about making a cup of tea for Mr BC because he has been so kind. He came down and was funny and smily and still kind. I explained I was hormonal and he hugged me in a sort of long suffering male way which made us both laugh. He promised to deliver my latest art commission on the way to a meeting so I didn’t have to queue 40 minutes to post it. Hoorah! He has been such a poppet. He works six days a week and I sit around wimpering and doing bugger all and he just smiles and makes jokes and looks after me. Without him I would be cast adrift on a dark sea. It would be crap.

You see being pregnant is stressy. It’s stressy because most of it seems to be about organising things; organising the house to accommodate a baby, organising the stuff you need for the little chap’s day to day needs, organising being in the right place on the right week for the right appointment, test or scan, organising getting there on time. Organising getting onto the waiting list for anit-natal classes in time, I thought I had, I haven’t, I’ll be having them too late – about 3 weeks before my due date.

The stressiest thing about it, though, it that there are only ever a finite number of places/appointments etc and in order to book them so they happen in the right places, at the right time, I have to go up against inhuman, normal, real people who are a lot more organised than me.

Being pregnant is stressy for me because in order to arrange to do certain things in certain weeks I have to know when each of those weeks are. I have a table but every time I count the weeks up I get a different date (because my IQ may well be one point off genius level but I still I have bastard discalcula). I am hanging onto the get here by X date and do this by Y date side of things by my fingernails and all those organised feckers are breezing it.

Bastards!

Yes. It’s true. I can’t organise a piss up in a brewery at the best of times but especially not at a time when I can’t remember my own name without sodding cue cards. I know, I’ve done that joke 100 times but it stays because it’s true.

Being pregnant is stressy because I am a vague, disorganised person suffering from a phenomenon which famously turns the most ruthlessly organised of its victims to clueless putty. Being pregnant is stressy because I am struggling to remember what day it is and now, on top of all of that. It smarts and I mean smarts. A lot.

It’s not like my knee. It’s not for ever and I’ll get a little boy at the end of it… and I’m no stranger to pain so why the fuck can’t I cope? Why the frustration, the tears and the impotent rage over this temporary pain if I can cope with the knee surgery? Oh well I am sure once my thumb’s healed up and I can, wash my right hand, do the washing up (yeh, I wear gloves, I sweat inside the gloves, it gets wet and it starts to ooze) have a shower normally and go back to wiping my bum with my right hand, I’ll be a little less ragged…