Get the fuck out of here.
I refuse to believe it. I’m sure that at least 50% of that goes on the toxic plastic shit that I am already planning to ban from my home, and the other 50% goes on Pokemon stickers. Little Ignatz will have a wooden clog to play with and will have to make his own entertainment out of empty carrier bags and used toothbrushes. If he’s good, he might get the other clog the following Christmas. Probably.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
I should probably be grateful that I haven’t had the urge to start licking the creosote from fences or munching handfuls of cat litter. But I can’t help but feel a little let down that I haven’t had the slightest sniff of a weird food craving. Since I have been approaching this pregnancy a little like a science project (it’s the best way I can think of to stop myself screaming with fear on a daily basis), I was rather looking forward to observing myself from a detached distance as I binged on raw potato or wood shavings or whatever it is that pregnant women find themselves scoffing. But so far, nothing. What’s particularly galling is that my mother-in-law craved good, solid Eastern European peasant food throughout her first pregnancy and McDonalds all through her second. And I am sure, once the news breaks, she will tell me all about this and every other detail of her pregnancy, on a daily basis, until the end of time. I’m planning to tell her I’m craving Sauvignon Blanc. Which is true, as a matter of fact.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
To say I’m a little up and down would be an understatement. One day I’m perky and full of beans, the next I’m brooding and weeping over magazine articles and – weird this one – an estate agent’s website. It’s an emotional rollercoaster and other convenient clichés. Current status? Not great – I made the injudicious mistake of watching a documentary set in the maternity ward of Southampton hospital last night and found myself wailing at the screen in anguish. Followed that with a film about mothers whose sons hate them and attack them with knives and furniture and stuff. So, let’s get this straight – it’s going to hurt like buggery and them the little fuck will hate your guts? Where do I sign up? Oh, that's right. I already did.