Situation Normal

Due perhaps to the existence of a partial feed, I had the impression that some of you thought the last post was a little… cliffhanger-like. I have to nod in judicious, satisfied agreement with this. I wrote events up precisely as they occurred, and it certainly felt like pretty edge-of-seat stuff to the key protagonists, so I’m delighted you were able to fully participate. I have been more cautious with my titling this time – but really, what’s a bit of anxiety between friends?!

The issue I am discovering with blog topics that one hasn’t precisely chosen – this one of pregnancy, for instance – (there, I said it!) is that it does tend to elicit personal admissions that, in the everyday course of subject-selection, one could quietly weed out. It is a long, long-standing irritant to the Hairy Hubby that my self-portrayal here does not, naturally, conform in its entireity to the description that he would give of me, or of the events I write about. He does not think that I am wilfully distorting any truths per se, merely that he frequently disagrees with my editorial decisions (excuse the pomposity, do. This is not The Times, I know.) regarding those items I include, those I leave out, the due emphasis given to them, and the resulting hue of either flattery or disparagement with which I paint the subject matter. I grant, freely, that I am far more likely to show you a photo of a cake I am pleased with than dwell on all the many occasions when John’s parenting is a distinct improvement on mine, and I have long ago ceased to bother having the argument about why that is Just Fine On My Blog, given that I am not, in fact, the parity-obsessed BBC.

All that being said, I would have preferred not to parade my peestick compulsion before you all, but events eventuated and I Am Not Proud. Well, maybe a tiny bit proud. I only know my final peestick total to the nearest… score, which will be my excuse for inexplicable failure at Full Disclosure Of Facts Unflattering To Ann.

We are, potentially, about to enter a different phase of pregnancy that will force me to highlight another facet of my idiosyncratic don’t-try-this-at-home approach to stress-management. The first person to use the word obsessive… well, actually, you can’t be, because John got in ahead of you a few days ago when I asked him if he knew where I’d left it. It. IT. The Thing.

Behold The Doppler. If you thought my peesticking was excessive, you have, I assure you, seen nothin’ yet. I am too fat, at only 8 weeks, to have a hope of picking anything up as yet, but that has not stopped me trying, naturally. Zippety.

Because I have lost two previous pregnancies circa this gestation, and I am climbing the walls a little, I have arranged a private scan for tomorrow. I can juuust about manage a week of Schrodingeryness, and that is my limit of knowlessness, thank you. I have succeeded in infecting John with my nerves, to the point that he is, once again, dreading the worst every time my name pops up on his ringing phone, apparently. Nevertheless, the poor chap is concerned that this Private Scan business might rapidly develop into an addiction of comparative £££ to crack cocaine – to which I reply that he had better hope I find something with my trusty doppler… soon.

Assuming that there is still a Turbo in there to find.

Nervous, edgy,  ill-tempered and crampy. 

Situation normal.

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