Tick Tock

I am now 30 weeks and 3 days pregnant.

"Oooh not long now" you might say with mock trepidation.

You might forgive the response "It's bloody ages" if you realised that at this point, I have been pregnant for 213 days. For the past few weeks I have found doing really simple things, like sorting out the washing, turning over in bed and getting off the toilet, increasingly more difficult.

This morning I cried because after going through a pile of dirty clothes, that I've been putting off for a while, I decided to make breakfast for my husband, who asked me (not unkindly) why I hadn't put golden syrup in his porridge.

The reason I hadn't done this is because, at the age of 25, I was too exhausted to bend down and get the  infernal stuff out of the cupboard. The washing had felt like a mountain and after beding down a couple of times I was dizzy and need of a little sit down. If I was a premiership footballer, I would have flung myself on the floor and demanded to be stretchered out of the bedroom. 

I know I'm only going to get bigger. I know that there will come a point that I won't be able to bend over at all and will need help get out of low chairs.

Before I give birth, I'll have to go through Christmas and New Year ("ooh not long now!" "Shut the f...ront door.") being massive and barely mobile- which is not something I'm relishing.

My nature, and being raised by a working single mother, tells me that I should be able to do it all and the prospect another 10 weeks of asking for help fills me with dread.

I'm naturally impatient and the waiting (coupled with how long it takes me to do ANYTHING) is proving a real struggle.

When people ask me if I'm worried about labour, I have to say that for the most part I am not. I can't wait to suck it up and do something truly taxing, rather than beating myself because I need hep picking up socks from the floor.

Roll on the next 10 weeks and BRING. IT. ON.