Great!

I now have mastitis in my right tit.
And possibly an infection in my uterus from 'residual tissue' decaying (oh, nice!!)

So I am on the sofa with antibiotics and one hot water bottle to share between the major pain regions who are taking it in turns to have a go.

After screaming from 11 o clock last night until 20 past 6 this morning, Boco has now slept for the past 5 and half hours. Little b*gger.

1. Engorged breasts and cracked nipples and a small person with the sucking power of a Dyson attached to them.

2. Sneezing With Stitches Where The Sun Don't Shine.

1. Labour & birth

shortly followed by

2. The Killer: First 24 hours at home with new baby.

*sinks to unwashed knees before falling face first into pile of pooey baby wipes*

I'll do a baby blog later but first I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everybody for all your lovely words and messages.

PLUS a thank you of immeasurable proportions to ABILENE, THE SAUCEPOT and to Paddy & Brad, Flickers, Row, Mrs F and Mr S, Old-Nick, Juzzy, Molty, Shootin, MenoMama, Faffajane, TKK, Subville, Redleader and Cody.

When we opened Abi's parcel I was so overwhelmed by your kindness, thoughtfulness and generosity that I was in absolute floods of tears and ParsleySage had to remove all the goodies from the vicinity of my rocking chair lest I dampen them with my outpourings.

I really don't know what to say about this but we were just so taken aback and thrilled that people can be so thoroughly bloody lovely. Thank you, smashing bloggers of the highest order of Top Notch Beings.

It even helped to take my mind off the pain in my (a) Dolly Partons [now visible not just from space, pirate boy, but from as yet undiscovered galaxies] and (b) stitches [not visible without the aid of a torch and hand mirror and trust me, I ain't looking].

But more of the gory stuff later, 'cos I know you want to hear it!

For now I shall go and adore my sleeping son, who has yet to open his eyes and observe his new abode since we arrived home from the birth centre this morning. I just have one more thank you to make which is a thank you so heartfelt that it's very difficult to put into words at all.
Thank you, ParsleySage. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Many thanks to all those who chanted to Boco yesterday. It may or may not have worked. I don't bloody know do I? I've never done this before. There are strange things happening to my body. We are on amber alert.

So today's chant, folks, is as follows: "Pop sixy! Pop sixy!" (to the tune of "Go Ricki!", etc., but with a different accompanying gesture, in this case a pelvic rocking motion).

Come on now, don't be shy, even if you are at the office. It's all in a good cause.

May we please attempt an experiment in the Power Of Thought, like in the last episode of Doctor Who?

Upon reading this post could you please chant the words "Come out Boco, come out come out COME OUT!!!!"

I know it's not even my due date until Friday. But the head is now fully engaged and I am too uncomfortable to do ANYTHING. And I am soon going to go completely MAD.

Many thanks for your participation in this experiment - possibly the first of its kind in blogworld - induction by blog? Who knows, it could take off...

All together now...

Woke up at 4.45am to find ParsleySage MIA, came downstairs and retrieved him from sofa, persuaded him to bed where he now sleeps, but unfortunately I can't. So now it's my turn on the sofa. Besides, I made lentil & chickpea curry for tea last night and my pregnant flatulence now smells appallingly like something died up my arse. I can't inflict it on PS, even while he sleeps.

Ok, so I will now admit to that last few days/weeks of pregnancy thing of being A Bit Fed Up. Walking, sitting and lying down are all uncomfortable. I am too restless to sit still and too tired to move around. PS has a 'lad's' guide to fatherhood called You're pregnant too, mate! It focuses rather tediously on the beer and cars analogies but is otherwise relatively entertaining. p55 says, of this stage in pregnancy, "If your partner walks like she's got a big greasy coconut trapped between her thighs that's because she has." I can barely get my legs together ("You should be used to that," said Boglet on the phone last night. )

It does feel a bit like standing on the edge of this big fuck-off cliff labelled Parenthood. I know that sooner or later, Boco is going to give me a nudge off the edge, and I'm actually looking forward to that. But I know what PS means about fears about leaving your 'old life' behind once the new one starts. It does sometimes feel bizarrely that in some surreal game of Top Trumps with the gods I swapped my house in the country, beloved cats, marriage & financial security for PS and Boco. And if I replayed the game I would do it again, no question. But it's still hard to say game over and jump off the cliff and know that it's all gone.

Had to come downstairs for a howl about this in the middle of the night the other night, just to let it go. After a miserable sobbing session I came to the following conclusions:

1. Better to meet the love of your life at age 35 than not at all (feeling bitter and resentful when other people talk about their relationships that way).
2. Better to become a mother at age 36 than not at all (spending the rest of my life feeling dysfunctional and unfulfilled).
3. Better to start over at age 35 than not at all (forever feeling that I had missed out on something, and abusing the trust of the people that loved me).

Then I went upstairs and fell asleep and dreamt of wasps, in my parents' house, where they always are. There was a nest under the eaves, they were coming into my parents' room. I told my mum, I told my dad, but no-one seemed bothered except me. I often dream of wasps, and they are always in my parents' house. Wasps and spiders. The spiders are my pregnancy dream, they are about me and motherhood and my own mother. The wasps go deeper. Always I am trying to get them out of the room but I can't.

Anyway. This cliff thing. I'm hoping I can be launched off it fairly soon, since my belly and pelvis feel like they are about to explode. As scary as it is, I can't wait. I can't wait to give birth (however odd that sounds) and I can't wait to hold our baby.

The baseline is, of course, adoring PS. I've been doing a lot of watching PS while he sleeps and I just can't stop adoring him. Boco is an added bonus, like winning the jackpot and then doubling your money as well.

I guess I must have won that game of Top Trumps, huh.

I foolishly gave in to the "take out a Mothercare storecard and get a £10 voucher" hype at the till the other day. Whereupon my details were taken by a clearly dyslexic store assistant, who then relayed them (excruciatingly) down the phone to the card administrators.

So my new shiny storecard arrives, and everything is fine other than my title appearing on the card as 'Mrs'.

Call me fussy, but I only got divorced this year, and I don't much like being known as Mrs.

So today I phoned the 'customer service line' to ask them to change me to Ms. I expected this to be a short, simple job; the work of 5 minutes perhaps?

How wrong could I be????

Step 1: Forced to read out my account number, date of birth, postcode, bra size etc to the automated voice recognition software so they know who I am.

Step 2: Forced to listen to automated details of my account balance, last payment date, next payment date, next statement date, etc etc etc etc etc etc.

Step 3: Menu of automated options for those whose enquiry has not yet been satisfied is finally relayed.

Step 4: Work my way through series of menu options until I finally reach the queue.

Step 5: Arrive at call centre in India where someone mutters down the phone and then doesn't speak to me for another 5 minutes while I sit there going Hello, Hello, Hello....?

Step 6: Call centre speaks to me. Required to answer series of security questions to make sure I'm still who I said I was.

Step 7: Explain request.

Step 8: Get put through to another department.

Step 9: Am on hold.

Step 10: Other department speaks to me. Required to answer the same security questions, to make sure I haven't had phone snatched off me by an identity thief since I last answered them a few minutes ago.

Step 11: Explain request.

Step 12: Call centre asks, "Please explain reason for this change".

Step 13: Six says, it isn't a change, I put Ms on my form, but you have it incorrectly entered on your records as Mrs.

Step 14: Call centre says, "Sorry but I need you to confirm why you need us to change our records?"

Step 15: Six says, BECAUSE I AM NOT MARRIED!!!!

Step 16: Am put on hold several times although the call centre does at least keep coming back to tell me that their system is slow today (really?)

Step 17: Everything is sorted. I am Ms.

Step 18: Call centre says "Thank you and goodbye, Mrs Sixpence" before putting phone down.

My parents are going home tomorrow.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mum and she has been a huge help while she's been here with littlun and housework etc.

But is it so wrong of me to want me to be alone with the man I love whilst we prepare for the imminent birth of our child? (due in 9 days).

And if it's not so wrong... why have I had this conversation with my mother an hour ago?

Mummy Sixpence: If you go into labour tomorrow then we won't be going home of course.
Sixpence: [trying to be diplomatic] If I go into labour then I don't think I will be up to much company, I'm afraid.
Mummy Sixpence: Oh but I wouldn't want to go home if the baby was going to be born.
Sixpence: [a bit more firmly] If I am in labour then I don't think I will be up to much company.
Mummy Sixpence: Oh well I can always stay in my room.

'Your' room? It ain't even our room, mother. Technically I think you'll find it belongs to our tax dodge landlords.

My mother last night: "If you don't have the baby before we go home then my next preference is for it to be born on my birthday next week."

My mother first thing this morning: "How are you feeling? Anything? Any twinges? No? Nothing at all? Are you sure? What a disappointment."

I WANT EVERYBODY TO GET OUT OF MY HOME AND GO AWAY!!!!!!

I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE WITH PARSLEYSAGE!!!!!

2 YEARS OF COUNSELLING AND I STILL CAN'T GET MY OWN MOTHER TO LISTEN TO ME WHEN I AM TRYING TO SAY SOMETHING IMPORTANT!!!!!!!!!

My mother called me a 'lazybones' this morning for getting up at 8.30am. Even though I'm 38 and a half weeks pregnant. And even though they are supposed to be staying here for a week to help out with littlun so I can rest.

So I took littlun for a wee, cleaned his teeth and got him dressed; but I have now returned to bed with ParsleySage's laptop and a mug of Ovaltine. Call me decadent if you will.

I invited my parents to stay until tomorrow, but they have somehow wangled some arrangement which means that they can't return home until Thursday. My mother is extremely peeved that I have so far failed to produce Grandchild during the course of their stay. Last night at dinner she announced, "I'm going to start taking you for walks". I was forced to point out that I am not, in fact, a dog.

I did walk to the pub and back with ParsleySage the other night however. And very nice it was too.

I have nearly finished reading all my pregnancy/giving birth books. These books are full of lies. E.g.

Braxton Hicks: "a painless tightening feeling"
Translation: cramps across the bottom of your bump that hurt like hell and render you unable to move for the next 40 seconds.

Perineal Massage [best not to ask, boys; but I am willing to try anything that is supposed to make giving birth hurt less]: "you may feel a slight tingling sensation"
Translation: this will be the most uncomfortable 3 minutes of your day, as you contort yourself into a frankly bizarre position, simultaneously developing the pregnancy equivalent of Texter's Thumb; never will you have you known 180 seconds to last so long.

Does this mean I have a low pain threshold or am, in fact, a bit of a wimp? Am starting to think that maybe I am not the ideal candidate for the "active, natural" birth described in my Birth Plan after all.

Went to the Leicester Caribbean Carnival yesterday, for the first time in 14 years. In fact, for the past 14 years I have gone so far as to be out of the county - nay, the region - on carnival weekend, whenever possible.

There was a man I really loved, and 14 years ago we walked all the way from our house on the outskirts of Leicester into the city, and we followed the carnival procession through the city and into Victoria Park, and when we reached the park we sat down on the grass and I said to him, you don't love me any more do you? And he said No. So we walked all the way home again.

It doesn't matter now, but it took a long time to get over him, because we weren't unhappy and we hadn't had a row and there wasn't anyone else. He just stopped loving me, and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

Yesterday was fine, though, and you can read all about it on ParsleySage's blog. And it was good not to be 22 any more, and to be sitting there with PS and littlun.

Although getting up off the grass, at 38 weeks pregnant, was a lot more difficult.

In addition to turning up wearing pink nail varnish, littlun also has something of an abiding hair fixation. (He also enjoys manly pursuits such as Cars and Trains, so we'll put it down to broadmindedness.)

Yesterday I overheard him on the landing with Grandma J.

"I don't like your hair," he announces.
"You don't like my hair?" repeats Grandma J, trying not to sound offended.
"No. I like Nanda's hair." he says with, er, cutting finality.
"You like Nanda's hair but not mine," says Grandma J, to ensure that she has fully grasped the situation.
"Yes," says littlun. "Hers is pretty."

Sorry, Grandma J!!