"Some Great Ideas On Ways To Spend Your Last Days Before Birth"

There are few better ways to spend an afternoon when you are heavily pregnant, than sat in a doctors office, cradling a fevered child while being violently puked on (just ask my Uggs - they got the worst of it).

I got the call yesterday afternoon that I was to go and collect Dumpie from school as he was unwell.  Upon arrival I found him lying unresponsively in one of his teachers arms, red with fever and crying softly.

"We're worried about Meningitis" the teacher mouthed to me as my brain went into sudden panic mode.  I felt my heart drop and recalled him mentioning a bad headache that morning before school.  Apparently Dumps had passed out during 'carpet time' and was drowsy, in pain and his eyes and head hurt.

In a panic I somehow managed to get Dumps home, calling the husband en route, and watching my Ocado delivery guy drive off because I wasn't there.  Hauling the big heavy red pushchair down a flight of stairs, I plopped Dumps inside and took off for the doctors at great speed.

Luckily, it turned out not to be more serious than a bad stomach virus, but unfortunately it took getting completely splattered in projectile vomit for the nice young doctor and myself to realise this.

Later that evening, during a consultation with a carpenter, I watched with horror as Egg ran up behind the fellow and started doing 'Air Karate' moves.  I knew what was coming, but I was helpless to fend him off. Once Egg decides to do something he will do it.  And sure enough, he karate kicked the fellow in the back of the knee before I began bellowing for the husband and nodding sympathetically with humiliation as the man told me that he had cartilage issues in his knees and was lucky he hadn't just fallen to the ground.

In short, it was the day from hell.  And how did I end it?  Not by curling up in bed with some hot chocolate and a good movie.

No.  I peeled open my second giant pomegranate of the day (pregnancy cravings anyone?) and flopped in front of an hour long birthing special called, "One Born Every Minute," which GRAPHICALLY followed the stories of three women in labour.

One woman who had designed a special red hot 'birthing outfit' for the pool, complete with cute little satin skirt, proceeded to deliver her daughter calmly and easily (lucky cow) whilst her 'totally gay but in denial' boyfriend encouraged her on, all the while showering her with accolades before bursting into hysterical tears of joy when it finally emerged.

Another woman freaked out so badly (by this time I was 'cruise control' crunching my pomegranate seeds at triple speed, oblivious to the stains gathering on my shirt) that they had to stick her like a pig with a giant epidural because she wouldn't calm down.

But the third woman was the most off-putting of all.  Hugely obese, she unfortunately resembled nothing so much as a pantomime version of Shrek, and waddled into the delivery room, (legs far apart enough to drive a truck through), her skinny 28 year old boyfriend quietly trailing behind like an afterthought.  She face planted herself into a bed, then after a short time, bovine-like, she rolled herself over onto one side, gripped then hoisted her own chunky thigh up in the air, then proceeded (much like one might imagine a cow in a barn to do so) to quietly expel the gargantuan 11 pound baby she'd been carrying.

Bish bash bosh.  And that my friends, is apparently how it's done.

"The Waiting Game"

So here I am, 37 weeks pregnant, just waiting...and waiting.

Christmas passed in a flurry of wine, cheese, shortbread cookies and carols.  Last night officially marked the end of that period when our perfect Christmas tree was finally deflowered of its beautiful ornaments and hoisted unceremoniously out the second story window onto the deserted street below, where it joined other discarded trees.

As predicted, the monsters were spoiled.  Not just by us (damn online shopping!) but by their many aunties, grandparents and family friends - nary a one who could turn up with a brightly wrapped parcel for the cheeky chappies.  As a result, our household is now made up of 37% plastic and at any given time I have rubber bullets whizzing past my head, micro helicopters hovering up above and little remote controlled race cars zipping around by my ankles.  But they are happy.

Dumpie has done a u-turn and is now excitedly awaiting the birth of his little baby brother.  Not a day goes by that he doesn't come up to me (in public sometimes - which is excruciating) lift up my top and plant several heartfelt kisses on my swollen belly, murmuring little exclamations of love to his future little sibling.

Egg on the other hand has become more withdrawn about the whole issue and wears an air of resignation.  Fair enough, as the eldest he has sussed out that another Dumps Mach 2 is a likely scenario and it's scaring the pants off him. Secretly too I suspect, he is stressed out by the whole 'naming' conundrum we find ourselves in.  Again.

It's no secret that with Dumpie, we waited until literally the last day (three weeks after birth) that we could officially register his birth, and equipped with pad of paper and pen, were hastily scribbling and debating 'the name' on the bus all the way to the registry office, with amused passengers looking on.

I see a repeat of that.  The husband is not terribly fond of the name the boys and I have chosen for the baby, and hence, is desperately trying to fling suggestions our way in the hope that one will stick.  (Strangely he veers between rather bog standard North American names (yawn) and outrageous ones like 'Cauliflower' and 'Barabas'.  The scary thing is, I don't think he's joking.)

Alas I have other things to worry about.  Like the impending 'natural birth' I face - due to my abhorrant fear of needles, I.V., and all things epidural related (sigh).  So it's going to be me, a husband fiddling about with his android phone and mini speakers, and a tube of gas and air which will provide my only distraction - likely in the form of violent vomiting if Egg's hospital water birth is anything to go by.  Can hardly wait.