In the last few weeks, my hormones have been raging! I am an emotional person at the best of times, so at the moment, things are totally out of control and my wild mood fluctuations are even annoying myself! Most of the time I am ecstatic about the littlin, but then I will have a moment of panic where I think "WHAT HAVE I DONE?", "how am I going to cope?" "I am going to be the worst mum in the world!". The last thought disappears very slightly when I hear a mother telling her toddler to "f*** off" when I am on my way to a baby equipment sale later in the week.
But generally, there is a feeling of life about to change for the better. However, the panic returns later in the week when my "nesting instinct" (I dislike that phrase, but it's succinct!) kicks in. I am desperate to get the "spare" bedroom ready, and while I have painted three walls, the fourth needs plastering. A guy agrees to come and give us a quote, saying he'll be there at 5pm. I have a work meeting in Guildford at 2pm, so hammer home and make it back at about two minutes to five, turning up at the house at the same moment as MrM who didn't think I'd be back in time, so left work early.
The plasterer doesn't turn up, so MrM calls him. "We've both left work early to meet you at 5pm".
"I got there early at 4.45 and there was no-one in", he says.
Anyway, my nesting (I said it again!) entails lots of cleaning, and trying to get all of my mum's stuff out of the living room and into our bedroom (our bedroom is a storeroom - totally unuseable!). Unfortunately, when carrying a load of boxes of my mum's stuff up the stairs, I slip backwards and the whole damn lot lands on my stomach. I cry and cry and cry, however, there's no bleeding but the guilt of the damage I could have done will never leave me.
So combined with my isolation, MrM and I discuss whether to move house before the baby arrives. I think yes, then I think no - it's not fair on MrM who already has quite enough on his plate at the moment. But it looks like a "yes"...