Tuesday, June 15, 2010

The joys of being an older mama

So, since my beleaguered brain has finally decided to fire on more than one cylinder I'm making the most of it by applying fingers to keypad. I'll probably be back to reclining in bed without the wit to do more than stare listlessly at the paintwork before too long, so in the meantime I'm making hay while the energy surge shines. Silence may be golden but it's not too useful when you're a blogger.

In addition to my brain cells making a limping return (welcome back cognitive skills, how I've missed you!), I'm also awash with an astounding amount of physical energy; although bear in mind this is in comparison to my usual sloth-like state, it's not like I've turned into Roadrunner. And this is all despite the fact that I'm now a dead-ringer for Jabba the Hut (high humidity levels + pregnancy hormones doesn't = svelte ankles, ok?), am a champion waddler, prone to break out the waterworks at any moment for any reason (i.e. we've run out of milk, kids are being sweet, puppies on the telly) and my stomach has taken on a life of its own (scary resemblance to that scene in Alien).

I really can't complain though, I know I've got it much easier than I did in my previous two pregnancies. I may be an 'elderly primagravida' this time round but what I may have lost in terms of youthful tautness and robust health I've gained in circumstance and common sense; I'm not working, my big girls are at school, I have plenty of help at home (let's face it, pushing the hoover around at 9 months pregnant is not much fun), the budget isn't as tight, and experience tells me that even though I'm desperate for a big plate of sashimi and a vat of wine right now it really isn't going to kill me to wait another three weeks. Oh happy days. 

1 comment:

postmommy said...

The way you describe how it feels to be 9 months pregnant instantly takes me back to when I was there with my younger son. It was around this same time of year. And I wasn't pushing the Hoover around, but somehow I managed to be responsible for MOWING THE LAWN. How I didn't murder my husband that last month I'll never know. It was at least 90 degrees (f) out and there I was, sweating profusely with my baby all but sticking his little arms on the handle right along with me. In my memory I imagine my husband relaxing on the porch observing with a giant frozen margarita, laughing at me, but I think in actuality he was at work. Still. Here's to a quick three weeks for you!