... which is why it seems like I've abandoned this before I've really begun!
Stu is poorly today so I'm doing a little bit of 'Nurse Erica', but not too much.
Currently looking about for funky maternity clothes. I've decided I want to be a Funky Mother. I might as well let my fun side out. I want our child to be a happy, funny and proud individual. If I'm not out there being who I am and enjoying life, how will little Sturica Bump develop his or her personality? I don't want to set any bad examples. Easier said than done, eh? Everything is within us and is in our power as parents, so we can try our best.
I believe I'm currently experiencing what they call 'quickening', the little butterfly wing flutters. I say 'I believe' because God knows I've never felt anything like this before and I could obviously be mistaking wind or bowel movements for this feeling! From reading tons of websites and the books and magazines lying around I don't think I'm meant to be feeling this so early because I'm quite overweight and I'm a first-timer so my uterus isn't as thin as women who've already done this. But hey, as I keep being told 'every women is going to have different experiences'... blah blah blah.
Indigestion is a proper bitch too. I can have a day where I eat like food's going out of circulation and I'll be alright, the next day I force down 2 slices of toast and rest of the day anything I eat feels like it's stuck in my throat and I'm bloated.
I'm also wondering when I'm going to start looking more pregnant and less fat? If only I'd gotten skinny before life dropped the B-bomb on me.
I worry a lot. My next post will be about worrying.
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
Names...
Some things to explain:
The name of this blog page is Sturica. This is not some vain attempt to name our child after ourselves in some kind of messed up 'Brangelina' fashion. It was just something Jan said jokingly and, until we know what gender our little one will be, I'm calling it 'Sturica Bump'.
The name thing in general is contentious. That wonderful old-fashioned notion we all have of men wanting a son and women wanting a daughter obviously hasn't reached our brains yet (we really don't care, as long as (s)he is healthy and happy!). We are all done and dusted with a girl's name! Well, to be honest, I had her first name in my head since I was a teenager, even though I seldom believed I would have the chance to bestow it upon my own flesh and blood. Middle names are in tribute to family.
Boys' names on the other hand... You know when you are in the honeymoon period of your relationship and you're playing the 'just supposing..' game? Stuart mentioned during this time that if we had kids he'd like to have a boy called Pedro. Yeah, I can see you reading this and doing the same face I did! Erm, for SO many reasons... 'No'. He mentions this again when we're on the way back from the hospital after my first scan. Apparently, it's 'Urban and Gritty'. Yeah, and one step away from my child being called 'Pedo' in the playground! Hell no. He know says he wasn't that serious about the name, but is rather keen on Carlos instead. I do not understand this obsession with Spanish names, but anyway... *rolls eyes* Anything I suggest gets vetoed because they sound too posh or too regal. I love Alexander, Thomas and Lewis. All the men in Stu's family have rather sensible, Scottish-ish (ish?) names like George and Andrew.
We are agreed on no stupid, fashionable chav names like Alfie and Charlie. And no Old Men names. Who wants to be a 3 year old Albert? And no random biblical names either.
So, yeah, that's why I have the 'Don't Vote For Pedro' picture on this blog. It's just wrong.
If anyone is reading this and has a sensible suggestion that Stu won't screw his face up at, let me know. :-)
The name of this blog page is Sturica. This is not some vain attempt to name our child after ourselves in some kind of messed up 'Brangelina' fashion. It was just something Jan said jokingly and, until we know what gender our little one will be, I'm calling it 'Sturica Bump'.
The name thing in general is contentious. That wonderful old-fashioned notion we all have of men wanting a son and women wanting a daughter obviously hasn't reached our brains yet (we really don't care, as long as (s)he is healthy and happy!). We are all done and dusted with a girl's name! Well, to be honest, I had her first name in my head since I was a teenager, even though I seldom believed I would have the chance to bestow it upon my own flesh and blood. Middle names are in tribute to family.
Boys' names on the other hand... You know when you are in the honeymoon period of your relationship and you're playing the 'just supposing..' game? Stuart mentioned during this time that if we had kids he'd like to have a boy called Pedro. Yeah, I can see you reading this and doing the same face I did! Erm, for SO many reasons... 'No'. He mentions this again when we're on the way back from the hospital after my first scan. Apparently, it's 'Urban and Gritty'. Yeah, and one step away from my child being called 'Pedo' in the playground! Hell no. He know says he wasn't that serious about the name, but is rather keen on Carlos instead. I do not understand this obsession with Spanish names, but anyway... *rolls eyes* Anything I suggest gets vetoed because they sound too posh or too regal. I love Alexander, Thomas and Lewis. All the men in Stu's family have rather sensible, Scottish-ish (ish?) names like George and Andrew.
We are agreed on no stupid, fashionable chav names like Alfie and Charlie. And no Old Men names. Who wants to be a 3 year old Albert? And no random biblical names either.
So, yeah, that's why I have the 'Don't Vote For Pedro' picture on this blog. It's just wrong.
If anyone is reading this and has a sensible suggestion that Stu won't screw his face up at, let me know. :-)
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Shall We Start At The Beginning?
My dear friend Janny P suggested a few weeks ago that I should start blogging again. I think secretly it's because she's like all my friends, a nosy cow (!!) but I think she has a point. This is a pretty weird and wonderful time for me, so it would be good to get everything down from my head and onto 'paper'. So, here goes nothing...
Anyone who knows me, what's the one thing I said I would NEVER do?
__________________________________________________________
'Once upon a time there was a lady called Eleanor who lay awake on a very cold January night. She had been poorly for at least a week, growing hot and cold, tossing and turning from the persistent pain she suffered within her body. As her unknowing partner snored lightly beside her, she began to feel a now familiar feeling creep across the bed and slowly slide under the soft duvet. A fear, which had started off as a small seed of doubt, now grew so looming and dense in the dark of the early morning. This fear wrung her insides to pulp and spread all through her flesh like a cancer. "Cancer," she thought. That's what it must be.'
I've written the above paragraph melodramatically for a reason. 1. Because it was a good way to open this blog, and 2. Because now I realise how bloody over-the-top and theatrical my mind must have been when I self diagnosed.
So on Tuesday 25th January I made the decision to find out what the hell was going on with my body.
I'd been sitting around feeling the old 'flu blues (I swear, I did have 'flu at first. Or a really heavy cold. Man 'flu?) but it changed into something I didn't understand. I'm not very good at being ill, I mean, who is? Normally I mentally gee myself up to feeling a lot better/stronger after 3 days because I get so friggin' bored of sitting around watching cack TV and not being able to go outside. After a week of phoning in sick and establishing an unhealthy relationship with the Maury show (there's not much funnier than watching a teenage black girl with a ridiculous name go into histrionics when the 3 men she's brought to the show all turn out *not* to be the father of her equally-ridiculously named child), I was fed up, bored, even more tired and afraid.
Stu and I went to the Doctor's surgery. I explain myself, she pokes me a bit, asks the usual questions then smiles and says, "I think you're pregnant." I'm like "Oh hell no!" inside my head. Outside I probably pulled a face resembling a Muppet about to fart. She sends me to buy pregnancy tests (bastards, the NHS, they don't even give them out for free anymore!) and says to come back straight away with the results. We wander down to a chemist in the bloody cold, I buy a 2 pack (always need that second opinion) and get back to the surgery. In the loo, I figure I might as well do both tests at the same time. This apparently is not advised in the notes they supply with the kit so don't follow me if you're mistakenly using this blog post as some kind of 'How To' manual. The double pink lines. Bloody hell, never seen those before.
I shall never forget this bit. I came back into the waiting room to talk to the receptionist so I could see the Doctor again. Stu was sat right on the corner of the seats, and he looks up at me and says "Was it...?", and I just nodded like I'd suddenly become dumb. He did have a half-smile on his face, as I recall. We sit and wait to be called again for what seems like forever, his arm around me, both of us very still and quiet. This is pretty much how we spent the rest of the day, going to the hospital, having the scan and seeing what was essentially a white dot with a heart beat on the screen, finding out I was 6 weeks, everything becoming very real and focused, seeing nurses and doctors, me giving samples, and in between we're clinging onto each other. I'm not sure it was just one emotion. Not for me anyway.
What to do?
Really?
Fear.
Relief.
What does he think?
Can we do this?
Can I do this?
Erm.... What?
I think we both looked so odd, not like a happy couple expecting good news. Stu is not one of those people who registers inner turmoil on his face, he can be very laid back and thinking a lot. So when the specialist was talking to us, there was a lot of talk about "making some decisions" and "not much time if you choice is to abort" and other such stuff. We shuffled out of the hospital in the evening and went to be picked up by my brother. My father hadn't helped matters by telling him there'd been some kind of massive emergency (old people). Found Maccy D's on the way home and sat in the kitchen digesting all this information as well as my food. Man, I was hungry.
We'd muttered a little to each other during the day about what we should do, but our general conclusion was we were going to have to talk about it a bit more. No sooner had we finished eating, Stu called his mother, his older sister and his 2 best friends and told them.
"So," I thought, "I guess we're having this baby then?"
Anyone who knows me, what's the one thing I said I would NEVER do?
__________________________________________________________
'Once upon a time there was a lady called Eleanor who lay awake on a very cold January night. She had been poorly for at least a week, growing hot and cold, tossing and turning from the persistent pain she suffered within her body. As her unknowing partner snored lightly beside her, she began to feel a now familiar feeling creep across the bed and slowly slide under the soft duvet. A fear, which had started off as a small seed of doubt, now grew so looming and dense in the dark of the early morning. This fear wrung her insides to pulp and spread all through her flesh like a cancer. "Cancer," she thought. That's what it must be.'
I've written the above paragraph melodramatically for a reason. 1. Because it was a good way to open this blog, and 2. Because now I realise how bloody over-the-top and theatrical my mind must have been when I self diagnosed.
So on Tuesday 25th January I made the decision to find out what the hell was going on with my body.
I'd been sitting around feeling the old 'flu blues (I swear, I did have 'flu at first. Or a really heavy cold. Man 'flu?) but it changed into something I didn't understand. I'm not very good at being ill, I mean, who is? Normally I mentally gee myself up to feeling a lot better/stronger after 3 days because I get so friggin' bored of sitting around watching cack TV and not being able to go outside. After a week of phoning in sick and establishing an unhealthy relationship with the Maury show (there's not much funnier than watching a teenage black girl with a ridiculous name go into histrionics when the 3 men she's brought to the show all turn out *not* to be the father of her equally-ridiculously named child), I was fed up, bored, even more tired and afraid.
Stu and I went to the Doctor's surgery. I explain myself, she pokes me a bit, asks the usual questions then smiles and says, "I think you're pregnant." I'm like "Oh hell no!" inside my head. Outside I probably pulled a face resembling a Muppet about to fart. She sends me to buy pregnancy tests (bastards, the NHS, they don't even give them out for free anymore!) and says to come back straight away with the results. We wander down to a chemist in the bloody cold, I buy a 2 pack (always need that second opinion) and get back to the surgery. In the loo, I figure I might as well do both tests at the same time. This apparently is not advised in the notes they supply with the kit so don't follow me if you're mistakenly using this blog post as some kind of 'How To' manual. The double pink lines. Bloody hell, never seen those before.
I shall never forget this bit. I came back into the waiting room to talk to the receptionist so I could see the Doctor again. Stu was sat right on the corner of the seats, and he looks up at me and says "Was it...?", and I just nodded like I'd suddenly become dumb. He did have a half-smile on his face, as I recall. We sit and wait to be called again for what seems like forever, his arm around me, both of us very still and quiet. This is pretty much how we spent the rest of the day, going to the hospital, having the scan and seeing what was essentially a white dot with a heart beat on the screen, finding out I was 6 weeks, everything becoming very real and focused, seeing nurses and doctors, me giving samples, and in between we're clinging onto each other. I'm not sure it was just one emotion. Not for me anyway.
What to do?
Really?
Fear.
Relief.
What does he think?
Can we do this?
Can I do this?
Erm.... What?
I think we both looked so odd, not like a happy couple expecting good news. Stu is not one of those people who registers inner turmoil on his face, he can be very laid back and thinking a lot. So when the specialist was talking to us, there was a lot of talk about "making some decisions" and "not much time if you choice is to abort" and other such stuff. We shuffled out of the hospital in the evening and went to be picked up by my brother. My father hadn't helped matters by telling him there'd been some kind of massive emergency (old people). Found Maccy D's on the way home and sat in the kitchen digesting all this information as well as my food. Man, I was hungry.
We'd muttered a little to each other during the day about what we should do, but our general conclusion was we were going to have to talk about it a bit more. No sooner had we finished eating, Stu called his mother, his older sister and his 2 best friends and told them.
"So," I thought, "I guess we're having this baby then?"
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