"Golly I'm exhausted."Only it's now the beginning of May. I am (or will be tomorrow) 37 weeks pregnant. Officially in the zone, and completely in denial.
"Well, my love, that's not surprising, you've been working all day, you've got three children under four and you're seven months pregnant."
"No I'm not. I'm about five, maybe six."
"Erm, I don't want to disagree with the pregnant woman, but you're having a baby at the end of May. It's now the end of March...."
This pregnancy has been utterly different from my previous two. I loved being pregnant both times before. I felt so special. I felt as though I was, first time, the only person who had ever had a baby; and second time, the only person who had ever had twins. I was probably incredibly dull to be with, because I suspect I thought, and dreamed and spoke about nothing other than the miracle(s) that were growing inside me. I cherished every movement, I analysed every scan, test or illegible comment scrawled in my notes, I fretted and worried, and ate well. I planned and prepared. I was pregnant.
And now? Well, now I'm pregnant. But I keep forgetting.
A small list of things I have forgotten in the last thirty seven weeks:
How to count to nine.
That climbing ladders is not recommended when eight months pregnant.
That I can't fit through that space.
Or that one.
Oh, no, that one's not big enough either.
That having a baby car seat, crib and baby clothes in the attic is not the same as having them downstairs, washed and ready.
That chocolate is not a food group.
To get a MAT B1 and fill in the form for the maternity allowance.
That they have yet to design a pair of maternity jeans that a) stay up and b) look good.
That you have to pack your hospital bag, and not wait for the pregnancy fairies to do it for you.
That you are supposed to read your notes.
That maybe going to a hen night 350 miles away the weekend before my due date is not entirely wise. Even if the bride is a medic.
That there is a reason I am tired, emotional and irrational.
A smaller list of things that, despite the above, I have not forgotten:
In somewhere between three and five weeks' time I will have another baby.
It will probably hurt.
It will, once more, change my life forever.
I will never be pregnant again.
And it is the last that I must keep reminding myself of. This is it. And as I sit here, typing away, my tummy visibly rolling about like a sailor recently returned to shore, I must remember how privileged I am to feel like this. To feel the indescribable sensation of someone else's hiccoughs, deep inside. To watch as a tiny foot pushes against me, so fast that you wonder if you imagined it. To have L, and S, and A, dolls shoved up their t-shirts, put their cold, cold hands on my bump because they want to feel their brother.
I have hardly any time left to be pregnant. I need to remember to cherish it.
I am going to write that on the to do list.