Either I eat more, sit like a hefalump (it’s not yet baby bump!), or I do a bit of exercise and make myself useful. The day starts on a positive note. I wake up to the hub singing... although, a tad earlier than my body clock was hoping for.
I have a shower (after almost being gassed out, as my enthusiastic husband’s cleaning of the cooker, accidentally knocks the gas on for up to an hour. Doors are flung open, add a few coughs and we’re over the worst. I attempt to hold my breath and cover my face with my vest, then I lock myself in the bathroom to try and protect myself and the growing baby, (they were the best saviours I could think of in a hurry).
I go for a brisk stroll with the hub to pick up vegetable stock... although our attempts are cut short as it’s before 11am and all the shops are shut. We're saved by Tesco Express down the bottom of our road!
After a fantastic team effort in making leftover turkey pie with leeks and bubble and squeak cakes, the hubster cracks open a beer as soon as his folks disappear to other visit other family. My: “Oh, you’re not starting the beer now, are you?” comment is met with a bark... which erupts into a ‘who-can-imitate-the-other-the-worst competition’.
My emotions get the better of me when I’m shut away with a few cuppas and biscuits and I worry that my stress will transfer to the baby. I know it’s Christmas and everyone drinks and overeats, but I can’t help but think that it’s not just me having a baby. I’d like the father-to-be to at least wait until the afternoon to crack open a can of ale, especially when he's so ill at the moment! Asking too much? Perhaps.
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