mothers on the verge

Been alternating between being an exhausted heap of lard and a bundle of energy this week. Hosted book club on Sunday night, which turned out not to be book club at all but another secret surprise baby shower, complete with fab games, super gifts and a fantastic nappy 'cake'! This shower was thrown by my girlfriends who are mums but not the school-gate-mums (in fact most of them don't have their kids in the same school as mine) who threw the shower for me last week. I guess if a distinction needs to be made at all it is that this is the group of friends I drink complicated cocktails with on proper grown-up nights out (or at least, did before I recklessly got myself knocked up) and embark upon other debauched/ restorative/ fun stuff with. Anyway, it just got me thinking how lucky I am.

Six days to go before the arrival of #3. Now have ankles to rival Shrek and a waddle like Jemima Puddleduck. Neither v glamorous. Enough already, it's time. With D-day fast approaching, I've been thinking back to the misty months following the births of Firstborn and the Small(er) One and trying to give myself some good advice for this time round. There's nothing quite like hindsight, after all. 1. Give yourself a break . The world will not end if the house is a mess for the first couple of months or if you stay in your PJs all day for the first couple of weeks (try to change and shower once a day, though - there is a difference between being a tired new mom and a dirty slob-out). If hubby has the nerve to complain that the house is more shanty town than Martha Stewart, tell him he's a schmuck who needs to shut up and cough up the moolah for maid service. If he bitches that you don't look like Heidi Klum two weeks after birth, present him with a cost estimate f

Last week of term so lots of presentations to teachers and goodbyes to those not coming back in September. Got school reports today, no surprises except for the Small(er) One being heartbroken as her class is being split up and she will be parted from her best friend (Quote: "My heart is broken, she is my one true love, sob" - too many Disney movies perchance??)... am filing this one away to deal with later when I have built up adequate emotional reserves. Firstborn's birthday tomorrow. She insisted on me making 30 fairy cakes all with piped faces and smartie eyes to take in to school for her class; they're not going to win any prizes but it made the girls laugh so I guess I did good. Sweaty stuff though, baking when it's 40C outside and my air conditioning is less than useless. Book club tonight at mine, thank God I don't have to leave the house. Thought I'd make a cake since I'd already made bloody fairy cakes but obviously my luck ran out with t

Swollen ankles? Tick. Sausage fingers? Tick. Double chinny chin chin? Tick. Pincheable chubber cheeks? Tick. Backside so expanded it could qualify as a dwarf planet? Tick. Boobs large enough to make Dolly Parton retch? Tick. Stomach like a helium balloon? Tick. Mood so foul it could sour the milk of every cow on the planet? Tick tock. Enough already. Let's get this bloody show on the road.

Yesterday a bunch of mums in Firstborn's class lured me to one of their houses under false pretenses and threw me... a surprise baby shower! Doofus here didn't twig until it was spelled out clearly to me that the whole event was entirely in my honour, that no it wasn't really a coffee morning (as I had been led to believe) and yes, the pink balloons were also for me (I thought they were leftovers from a kiddie birthday party, er dur). Being the shy and retiring type I was initially quite pink of cheek and bashful but I soon got over it. But I can't quite get over the sweetness of it. Here are a group of school mums who I've only known for just over a year and yet they go to all the trouble and expense of throwing me a baby shower. I really am very touched. In contrast, I didn't even get a good-bye card from the witches at the old London school when we left for Dubai - although in all fairness this was probably because they were extremely pleased to see t

Firstborn had a birthday party yesterday which was held jointly with one of her classmates - thank God because 9 months pregnant + sole responsibility for 15 hysterical pre-pubescents does not a happy partnership make. It was about all I could do to bake a cake, decorate it (looked like the culinary equivalent of Dolly Parton but what the heck, the kids practically inhaled it anyway) and throw a few favours in some party bags. Oh, and drive to the venue with two excited children leaping about like cocker spaniels. Even this small stuff had me waddling about feeling like a Victorian lady having a fit of the vapours. I got even more cross every time I peered down and caught a glimpse of my fat ankles and sausage toes. Plus I was also momentarily majorly p'eed with poor Alpha, who spent the day permanently attached to the loo with a bad case of gastro-flu, just in case he was doing a job on me and trying to duck out of daddy-party-duties. As if he would (dare) but these up-the-duff

OK. Enough already. No fair . Yes, it is true that Dubai has (at best) a rudimentary postal service in which packages appear to be subject to the whims of fate and the cycles of the moon (possibly). Special impromptu 'taxes' are sometimes needed to be handed over in order to release one's package from secrethideyplaceparcellimbo. Things have been known to languish in hidden corners, gathering dust for weeks, because the recipient of said package is ignorant of its very existence (notification system? Hahaha. Receiving a parcel is often down to nothing more than pure dumb luck). Be grateful, Western peeps, be very grateful that you are unlikely ever to have to experience the Kafka-esque joys of trying to spring a parcel from the steel jaws of Dubai's central post office building. It's the sort of experience that sorts the men out from the boys.   But all this aside, my big gripe is that this little quirk in what is otherwise an amazing city means that so many d

I thought I was beyond feeling lustful about anything in this advanced stage of pregnancy (except perhaps for contraband chocolate cake) but that was before I stumbled over this site, a cheeky little online boutique by name of Little Beau. I can only describe it as babystuff shopping porn (sorry Alpha, possibly our finances won't be looking too healthy this month... put it down to pregnant craziness and let's move swiftly on). Here's what's got me frothing at the mouth: Taggies in organic and silk : I love Taggies. Having lost far too many favorite silky scarves and other soft items to the comfort blankie cause over the years (my big girls still sleep with two sarongs I picked up a decade ago in Thailand), Taggies are great option if you're fond of the contents of your wardrobe. The new Naturals range in organic cotton and silk are positively covetable. Top of the wish list? You betcha. Fabulous wigwam : I have very fond memories of building dens when I was a

So far this week I've pulled the spare-room cupboards apart and reorganised them, sorted through mounds of baby clothes (really hope the baby does turn out to be a girl, there's a hell of a lot of pink in there), made a fairly complicated cheesecake with chocolate and butterscotch swirly bits, cooked a rather good chicken curry, ticked off the headmaster for his lily-livered stance on the Starbucks debacle (a few strident complaints does not a consensus make), went on a school trip to the rather excellent Cite des Enfants , and am currently engaged in what promises to be an epic saga in trying to track down my very nice (if I ever get my hands on it) New Zealand-made baby hammock , currently gathering dust in a post room somewhere in Dubai. I've also taken a heap of pictures in to be framed (a long overdue task), delivered material to the tailor to make summer dresses for the big girls, packed (and repacked) my hospital bag, bought baby essentials like nappies and wipes,

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 m