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I’m 38 weeks and 3 days. Which means I’ve got 11 days until my due date. Teddy was 6 days overdue, and lots of people are saying that generally speaking you can expect your second to turn up around a week earlier. These are the facts, people.

Another thing: at my midwife appointment this week, she did all the usual checks (they’re largely blood and wee-based – it’s all very primal having a baby), and after a little while, said to me, “do you think this baby is going to come early?” At which, I said I had no idea. It was only afterwards that I realised that this might have been rhetorical. She thinks the baby is going to come early.

Of course I’m just clutching at straws. Cos the purposes of this post is one of time. These last couple of weeks have taken a million years. And the fact that I’ve still got the best part of a fortnight to get through is just killing me. This is the slowest gestation period known to man, I’m pretty sure of it. I think elephants have pretty long ones, don’t they? And I heard last night something very silly about Jackie Chan (I actually had to google “Jackie Chan gestation period” at one point, and I suggest you do too – I think he might have been trying to reinvent himself as a fetal Chuck Norris), but neither elephants nor Jackie Chan have had to cope with the torment of my gestation period, which – as it stands – has been about 17 years so far.

What is it about these last few days that means they stretch out so interminably? I’ve tried to keep my diary full, I’ve tried to even enjoy having a bit of time to myself, I’ve tried to bake and clean and do all sorts of dull things like that to take my mind off it, but nothing has worked. It’s still like a bad sci-fi film where the horizon keeps on getting further and further out of reach.

But while I’m here, the baking thing brings me to my second whinge. Nesting. What an awful, awful concept that is. Nesting. I’m a mama hen, shaking out my tail feathers, and settling down plumply over a clutch of eggs, keeping them toasty, while my handsome cock (yup, I’ll stick with cock) wanders off to forage for grubs to keep me fatly sustained until they hatch. Nesting. It’s up there with referring to oneself as “Mummy” to other adults, or suggesting that all women love cupcakes**.

Several people have asked me if I’m nesting, and it makes me furious. Okay, so it’s true in the last few days I’ve decided to paint the living room – and you don’t half look like a twit when you’re 9 months pregnant wobbling around on the top of a step ladder, I can tell you. Why I didn’t decide to do this a couple of months ago beats me. On top of this, yesterday – which is housework day (YAY for Fridays! My favourite day of the week!) – I found myself washing the front door.

Let me make this quite clear right now. I am not an avid cleaner, and I don’t enjoy it. I do everything I can to simplify the cleaning regime – even down to the clothes that we (very occasionally) buy. Every item in mine, Dave’s and Teddy’s wardrobe is made of stretch jersey for purposes of iron-avoidance. Everything. Even shoes.

So how can I explain the living room painting and the front door thing? Well, it’s certainly not nesting. What I put it down to is this very slow march of time until the earth-shattering pain of childbirth. The fact is that I’m spending all day, every day, trying to figure out how to fill up my time in a useful way. And yesterday, at about 4:45, the most useful way I could think of to fill up time was to wash the front door.

I cleaned it with Ecover, btw, which means that no-one will even notice. I would have used bleach, but after two nights on the trot where Teddy squeezed out poos of eye-popping proportions in the bath, we’re right out.

Anyway. This isn’t really a proper post, is it? It’s just me marking time. 11 days and counting. Might write one next week, might not. Depends if I’m getting pissed off at being in denial at pregnancy terms that apply to me, or if I’m busy cleaning the shower tiles with a toothbrush.

*Seriously, it is. No matter if they bung Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen in it, it’s still utterly, painfully, nose-twitchingly boring. Oh ha ha, one of them’s wearing a funny hat, and I remember him from Star Trek. NO. Still not funny.

**Cupcakes. Hideous bits of flavourless sponge covered in grotesque mounds of sugar and butter that look like something Barbara Cartland has just shat out. This is what happens when the UK goes mental for all things American – ooh cupcakes, don’t they sound luvverly, we say with our quaint cockerney accents, forgetting that our own version of small cakes – the delightful fairy cake – is far superior in every single way.