The BIRTH PLAN

Well, anyone who knows me will know full well the horrors of chronic and sustained sleep deprivation this family suffered during the first 4 years of Eden's life. I am now getting a taster of this once again having been up since 3:15am and having barely slept for the last few months with various ailments, viruses and pregnancy related complications. And all before baby even arrives! Woohoo! There's a whole book inside me on sleep deprivation so I'm saving that one for a rainy day.
So, what's on my mind at 3:15am when the house is sleeping? 3 little words, that's all - THE BIRTH PLAN. Now, this phrase has got to be the most oxymoronic statement known to humankind. Never before have I come across a statement that so patronisingly and sycophantically attempts to assuage women's fears of the utterly uncontrollable journey of birth.  Ha! Well, unfortunately for me I am not one of those women who plan a carefully constructed water birth, rock their pelvis to the rythmic sounds of whale song while breathing through intense pain using advanced yoga  techniques and an Enya CD.  Nor am I a woman who can suspend their cynicism long enough to engage with 'hypno' birthing or 'positive visualisation'. It fucking hurts!!!!! Like nothing on earth!!!! Am I weird for suspecting that visualising an Angel 'helping me push' will not really prevent my pelvis ending up like a tragic mineshaft accident?? Maybe this time around, boy #2 will slip effortlessly into this world accompanied by the sounds of a harp and the gasps of midwives saying: " Oh look, he's here already, quick get your tights off!"...but somehow I think that's unlikely. So, in the likelihood of a more realistic birthing experience I have an approximation of a BIRTH PLAN - and here it is in order of priority. I want:

1. More drugs than Pete Doherty's tour bus.
2. An anaethetist with the bedside manner of Kevin Spacey on Parkinson, the face of Aiden Gillan and the arms of a French rugby player.
3. A guarantee that the whole thing will be over in time to watch Masterchef.
4. A laptop within arms reach - permanently open at The Outnet's sale page (along with an empty credit card)
5. An old, smiley wet nurse from the 1960s whose sole purpose in life is to breastfeed babies and get them into a routine while Mummy sleeps and goes shoe shopping because her feet no longer look like BLOATED PASTIES FROM GREGG'S.

So, birth plan sorted. Can't wait to show the consultant!

Pregnant, over 40 and MISERABLE

Oh the miracle of pregnancy! The joy of being possessed by a parasitic being that gets its kicks from beating you up from the inside! You hear about the women who Glow. What about the ones that Throw? Every day for 37 sodding weeks?! Yes, I am 37 weeks pregnant with son #2, the wrong side of 40 and am downright miserable. When do I get the 'lit from within' skin? The burst of primal energy that signifies my blossoming into late motherhood with a flourish of serotonin and an overwhelming urge to nest? The desire to research tumble tots with the enthusiasm and vigour of a 'sorted' 28 year old with her peachy new offspring swaddled up in a £900 Bugaboo grinning all the way from one Dinny Hall earring to the other? Why is it that all I want to do is stop wearing sale bin-end dresses in a size I thought only fit for the morbidly obese and avoid pebble dashing the bathroom with vomit AGAIN because I've just paid my Croatian cleaner thirty five sodding quid to make it smell of summer meadows? And how the hell did this happen to me A SECOND TIME anyway when I am peri-menopausal, ON THE MINI PILL and only have sex three times a year on overcast Thursdays in May???? Am I a bizarre statistical freak of nature or does my terrified 50 year old partner have unlimited secret stores of  boy-making Kryptonite in his (soon to be tied) testes?