Is there such a thing as pregnancy rage?
Nothing like starting the week with a bang. Not only school, work, etc, but also ballet, a party and football practice. Bring it on! In addition, AOL went down most of the afternoon. I kept thinking it was my modem and cursing it, but apparently my modem thingy is in good health and feeling much maligned.
Big girl daughter has finally told her teacher that I am pregnant. The teacher thought she was making it up, but I think she then went into some detail. I am a bit worried about precisely what detail that might be because she and her bonkers sisters are getting increasingly excited about my changing body. I think enthusiasm does not sufficiently convey their comments. "Mummy, your boobies are MASSIVE," commented the bonkers one with eyes wide open. "Is the baby under your boobies?" asked big girl daughter. "Can I talk to him?" Bonkers daughter has taken to addressing all comments to the baby through my chest.
Everyone else seems to be absolutely obsessed with wanting to see how big I am getting, even if they only saw me yesterday. I think I am not really that big, but I am beginning to feel it with everyone asking to see the evidence all the time. I suppose you are supposed to just let them pat and poke you and probably there is something very wrong with me that my immediate reaction is bog off, or words to that effect. I think anger has become my predominant emotion in the so-called blooming second trimester. I went to the school today to ask about the CRB form that they keep requesting you have to do the slightest thing to help out at school eg drop offs, school outings, etc. Apparently you can only get it through the school if you help out regularly, which means basically if you don’t work. I paid for one before we moved as I was applying to do teaching, but it is apparently meaningless outside that particular area. Why?
I think my state of humour is possibly due to excessive tiredness. Yesterday I started the day with making packed lunches, cleaning guinea pigs, ironing and doing the slow cooker. The kids are bored of the slow cooker [a Christmas present and my attempt to start the year with healthy meals] already. "Not stew AGAIN," they groan in unison. Now, if it was sweetie stew I am sure they would be interested. I offered big girl daughter a petite suisse on holiday, but know she hates yoghurt. However, she misheard and her ears perked up. "Sweets?" she smiled hopefully.
After a day packed full of work, I staggered to football practice to pick up rebel daughter, crashed the car into a gate, and then stumbled into ballet. Ballet would be lovely if it was just a case of dropping off a small person and watching her pirouette through the glass. However, on the non-dancing side of the village hall where the girls do ballet are not only adults, but about a million [it feels like it] siblings of ballet dancers, all raring to go. It is total mayhem and not, perhaps, the kind of scene which Swan Lake and the like conjure up. We got home intact, though, and collapsed in front of H20, the world’s premiere programme on teen mermaids with magic powers. The only way to end the day.