 |
Baby stats:
Current size: 1.5cm
Achievement: Straightening out
Aimee's key symptom: Vomiting
Comparable to: A poisoned bean
Developed this week: External ears (for when dad is singing) and webbed
hands (for when mum is singing).
|
 |
 |
|
Kevin's thoughts:
Ever been to a film where there's someone nearby making predictions on how they think the film
will end? The serial killer has struck again, and the wise-cracking young upstart cop begins
the interview with the first witness on the scene. "I'll bet it was him," says the spoiler. Then
we meet the dead guy's wife ten minutes later. "Oh, she's totally guilty."
The pattern continues such that every new character that appears on the scene is greeted with,
"That's the killer"; the Chief of Police, the landlord, the owner of the abandoned warehouse
on the docks, the director of the film, maybe even an unseen enemy that was in the first film
but hasn't shown up in the sequel yet. "I'll bet it's Chang, and he's still alive!"
The constant 'predictions' cause you to grind your teeth loud enough to get a Gummibear in the
back of the head.
Then comes the end of the film, and it WAS the landlord. "AHA! I KNEW it was the landlord! Didn't
I say it was the landlord? I did, didn't I?" Sure you did, in the three minute period between when
you said it was the Chief of Police and when you said it was the warehouse owner.
You take that many stabs in the dark, you're bound to find the switch eventually.
This is the problem with being in that tricky stage of pregnancy when you can't tell anyone.
Aimee and I are of acceptable age, health and career to be ideal candidates for a baby. Aimee's
coworkers are hoping for anyone to have a baby. My coworkers' siblings have babies all around. With babies
on the brain, all women of baby age turn on their baby radar and begin to make 'predictions'.
And it's up to us, the ones that ARE pregnant and still in the delicate stage, to stay under
the radar.
So, what to do? Luckily, I have a very clever friend at work who is a master in the art of manipulation.
The solution? We started a rumour that someone else is pregnant. Piece of cake when every baby
radar in your department is on high alert.
 | |  |
|
How to start a rumour at work:
1. Selection: Choose a subject that almost fits the profile of the intended rumour, but for which the rumour would seem slightly out of character. This makes the gossip 'juicy'.
2. Connection: Ensure that the subject is someone with which you have more contact than the gossipers. This way you can act as though you have 'inside information'.
3. Location: The subject's desk should be in another part of the building than that of the gossipers to avoid a random visit to the subject's desk.
4. Delivery: Don't just blurt it out. Imply the presence of a possibility, let the gossipers put the pieces together and draw the conclusion themselves. Once they've made the connection, clam up with the phrase "I haven't told you anything," which, in all honesty, you haven't.
|
|
 | |  |
Following these simple rules, all we had to do was say, "Alexandra [whom you met on Week 6],
have you seen Sweeney [a girl with a flagrant disregard for IT policies] at netball [a ridiculous sport
rather like basketball except they've taken down the backboards in order to find more surfaces to write
rules on] lately?"
"No, why?" replied Alexandra.
"Ah, figures. I shouldn't really say anything, but next time you see Nigel [her boyfriend torn between a
glamourous rock n roll lifestyle and corporate subservience] ask him why he's got a smile on his face..." and with that,
I clammed up for the rest of the morning, with my 'I'm not saying a word' eyebrows on.
By the time we'd returned from lunch, Alexandra and Holly [whom you also met on Week 6
and who has never met Nigel OR Sweeney] had convinced themselves that Sweeney must be nearing three months,
and that Nigel came back to work at the office to show his worth as a responsible dad to be.
Dead easy! This doesn't mean that they still haven't guessed Aimee's pregnant, and I may have
ruined two reputations in the process... but hey, at least the heat's off me!
|
|
|
|
|
  |
|
Aimee's thoughts:
What did I accomplish this week? NOTHING. What did I clean around the house this week? NOTHING. What did I cook this week? Don't talk gross talk. I can't even walk into our kitchen without putting my hand over my mouth and running for my puke-bowl. I no longer am a busy, efficient career gal and devoted wife with a penchant for fine meals and thinking up video game ideas for kids (that's my job, in case you're wondering and yes, it's the best job in the world).
 | |  |
|
This is what bbblllleeeecccchhhh looks like. And yes, that IS a plum in my hat. |
|
 | |  |
Instead, I've begun my full-time career as a naseous, vomiting, vestibule of tiredness. Yes, I know I spelled
'nauseous' wrong, but I'm so tired I can't be bothered to run spellcheck on it.
I am capable of absolutely nothing, and most of the thoughts running through my head are of the 'eeeeennnnnnhhhhh' or 'bbbllllleeeecccchhhhh' variety.
This doesn't really make me the best company, or the best colleague or the best housekeeper. I can shove aside the company aspect for a few weeks, and hope that my colleagues won't notice that I've suddenly stopped talking, eating and smiling. However, at the end of the day, where you can ignore company and colleagues, housework ignored only results in more (and more disgusting) housework.
| | |
|
OVENS BEWARE! (See, I wasn't kidding about the gloves) |
|
| | |
Enter Kevin, a.k.a. SuperHusband. Now, don't go thinking that I'm the type to patronise Kevin by being oh-so-impressed if he picks up his socks after flinging them over his shoulder while playing Monkey Island. He's no slouch. Pre-preg, Kevin did at least 30% of the housework and cooking (I had written 'half' before, but who am I kidding?).
But now that I'm unable to do ANYTHING, he's earned the title of SuperHusband. Not only is he doing all the shopping, cooking, cleaning and taking care of me, but he's also putting up with a long list of demands for fine-tuned cleaning that my fine-tuned pregnant nose is picking up on.
For example, the oven. He's just totally cleaned our grubby oven for the first time since we've moved in. He's also cleaned the carpets because I claimed they were making me sick with their musty smell. He's just been so incredibly good these last few weeks - I honestly don't know how I would have done it without him.
Unfortunately, I'm soon to find out what I would do without him. He's away for the next five days at work. That's five days of me swimming in a sea of ginger cookie tins, stinky dishes and empty M&S macaroni and cheese containers. There's nothing for me to do but wallow in self-pity that he's not here this week at weep at the unfairness of it all.
Well, there technically are things for me to do, but I'll just leave them for SuperHusband to take care of when he gets back.
|
|
 |
 |
Did you know? |
 |
|
In just a few more weeks, our little tyke graduates from an embryo to a full fledged
foetus. No bones about it, baby's growing up.
Speaking of bones, you probably know that there are 212 bones in the adult human
body, but believe it or not, a foetus has more! Foetuses (foeti? no, definitely foetuses)
have a bunch of bone segments which fuse together later in life.
This is called the Ikea
Principle, since it's the same method used by furniture scientists to get an entire
wall-mounted bookshelf to fit into a tiny box.
|
|
|
Aimee's cravings |
|
|
Chinese dumplings
Hot dogs
Both are somewhat difficult to acquire in Tottenham, so unless I'm willing to make a trip into
the city to the London Eye and a quick stop by Chinatown on the way back, I'm out of luck.
This is doubly unlikely as hot dogs cost three pounds at the London Eye. Three POUNDS.
That's about seven Canadian dollars. Who wants to come for a visit now, huh?
|
|
|
Did you also know? |
|
|
They sell hot dogs in jars here, people. JARS. Like pickles or jam.
That's so GROSS, like, can you imagine reaching into a jar and pulling
out a tube of wet meat? AUGH!
|
|
|
|
|
Aimee's Book of the Week |
|
|
 The Rough Guide to Pregnancy & Birth
By Kaz Cooke
Very fun, witty and clever book that tells it like it is. I took this out of the library a while back, before I was pregnant (yes, I did that sort of thing) and am now regretting not adding it to my essential book purchases - I've reached the Kevin-tolerance limit for pregnancy book purchases. As soon as it's back in stock at the library, it will be mine again. Bwah haha! (Sorry, hormones.)
|
|
|
People in the think |
|
|
Rumours are running rampant at Girlguiding. I've heard from Kate (in-the-know gal from
Week 6) that the Head of HR, who happens to be quite intuitive
about these things, suspects I might be pregnant.
It could have something to do with the sick room being across from HR, but who am I to
argue with intuition?
|
|
 |
| |
Who wants to be the first to talk to our baby? Anyone? Anyone?
Send Baby a Babygram!
All you have to do is click on the Spermailman below, type your uplifting message into the
box provided, then BANG ZOOM! TO THE WOMB! Like I said, Science is cool!
|
|
 |
|
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
Muncus Cooper's Parenting Tip: If you keep your baby in the dark, it'll cry less!
By depriving it of its senses, it will soon learn that the action of crying illicits no response. Go on, have a nap! The baby's fine! |
|
 |
|
 |
|
*Muncus Cooper is the Safety Representative for one of Europe's leading health and safety organisations. If he says it, it must be true! |
|
|
