7 Ways To Survive The Last Month Of Pregnancy

There comes a time, in every women’s pregnancy, when she reaches the ‘gatvol‘ stage. For my International audience – gatvol basically means ‘sick and tired’. Well, friends, I am officially gatvol. Like labour dilation, it happens slowly with a rush at the finish. I woke up on Monday, tired, puffy and exhausted, and by the time this morning had rolled around, I was 100% certified gatvol. If you aren’t sure if you are in the early stages of gatvolness or the late stages – here’s a simple test: Does the sight of another human being fill you with rage? If yes, you are at full-scale gatvol.

Full-scale-gatvolness tends to happen in the last month of pregnancy, and can be narrowed down to one thing. You have been pregnant for 11 years.

The only official cure is to birth the baby, so until then the gatvol-ness must be managed with a variety of lifestyle changes. Because as we all know, hard liquor, medication and murder are all top of the ‘pregnancy no-no’ list.

So, as my free-gift to you, I have come up with a list of several ways I can recommend surviving the final stages of pregnancy, until it’s time to become un-pregnant.

  • You aren’t sleeping, which is terrifically unfair, because you know that in a short few weeks when baby is here, you will never sleep again. Why aren’t you sleeping now, you ask? Because baby is literally sitting inside your bladder making running water noises and the slightest movement from either yourself or her sends you waddling to the loo. If you’re lucky, a little bit of wee will pass out. Enough to justify the use of a square of bog roll. If you’re not, you will convince yourself you have a bladder infection. This goes on all night. All fucking night people. The only way I have managed to help myself is to have a weekly cheat meal of soya sauce in a bowl. Drink it before bed and ensure you do not touch water. You must dehydrate yourself to the point of biltong if you want it to work. Then, with skin sucked in as tight as Zumas Shrek skull, you must go to bed and not move. Not a muscle. Your lack of movement, coupled with the extreme dehydration your are now putting your body against, will ensure a guaranteed 4-6 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  • The heartburn in the latter stages of pregnancy will become so bad that you will wish sudden death upon yourself. Gaviscon will no longer work. Not even when drunk directly form the bottle (the large pink one) and downed with a couple chew tabs at the same time.Not even when your pillow nest is 4 granny-goose high and you are more erect than Bill Cosby after cocktail hour. The only cure, I’m afraid, is to stop eating anything with wheat, carbs, cheese, sugar, preservatives, spices, flavouring or milk. You must not consume anything that is actually food. Instead, if you feel faint to the point of collapsing, you may smell a piece of spaghetti and drink one glass of soya sauce in water. You might actually die from malnutrition, but the positive to this is no more heartburn, and a guaranteed good rest.

  • If you, like me, are waddling like an Internet gif, you must make alternative transport plans. I cant begin to tell you how little respect I generate when I walk int a boardroom looking like I’m birthing a penguin from my vagina. If the waddle is severe, you must break a bone and confine yourself to bed rest until baby arrives. A toe or foot will suffice. Remember – a break will hamper your time after baby – so think this one through very carefully before committing. If the waddle is only bad in the morning, afternoon, around lunchtime and at other times during the day, may I suggest finding a sturdy office chair to get you from point to point. Extra claps if you can find an attractive colleague to push you around.

  • It is very important to remove yourself from any situation where you may encounter a person with a stupidity disability. Sadly, hiding at home away from other human beings for 9 months is almost impossible, so may I suggest embarking on a ‘people purge’ for a while. Remove yourself from any and all mailing lists, politely decline any and all meetings and avoid 98% of men in the office who think their sexist jokes are funny. It is also very important to not answer unknown numbers, or emails that start with ‘TV licence’. Just yesterday I told a do not reply sender to go and ‘fuck their hand’. If your bullshit tolerance feels like it might break, then may I suggest also deleting your social media accounts until your anger hormones have settled. 12-99 months should suffice. Top Tip: Also try and avoid the following people: Car guards, telesales people, municipal workers, slow waiters, taxi drivers and slow-mall-walkers.

  • Do not allow yourself to be in traffic unnecessarily. I say this with peace and love in my heart, for I intentionally aimed my SUV at a silver painted mannequin man just last week. After a mind blowingly fun 2 hours in traffic. His juggling red balls were blocking the turning arrow, and for that I knew he must die. Luckily I had my son in the car, otherwise that silver man would have been so deeply ingrained into the tar of William Nicol that people old have mistaken him for a shimmery mirage.

  • Do not divorce your husband while pregnant. Give the relationship a fighting chance and admit that even you – yes, you – may be overreacting at times. Sure, the sight, smell and sound of him may cause you irrational anger, but this too shall (hopefully) pass. They don’t mean the things they say and they are also probably truly sorry for being such assholes during your 40 weeks of suffering. Do not rise to the bait when they tell you about your pregnancy and feelings and do not, under any circumstances, let them know that the smell of alcohol on their breath makes you want to cut their face off. If possible, ignore them for the entire gestation and become a self sufficient martyr.**

  • In the last month of pregnancy it is important to not carry anything of monetary value. Buy a cheap pay-as-you-go cellphone and eat off paper plates. This means, should you ever drop anything, it is therefore not necessary to pick it up or retrieve it, because if you lean down to fetch it, the chances are statistically high that you will never get up again.

  • Invest in a pair of highly unattractive, yet functional footwear. I’m taking something with the word ‘Froggy’ or ‘Green’ in them. Your feet and ankles with grow so swollen with water that anything sharper than the prick of a blade of grass will surely make them explode. Your feet, in anything stylish, will expand and wrap themselves around the straps, and you shall be left with a Geisha like walk for eternity. Fashion be damned, buy those damn Crocs.

Now off you go, waddle with god speed into your 19th trimester, dear friend. Not long to go until baby is here, you can drink wine and see your toes again.

**If you still feel this way when your baby has reached high school, then it’s probably not a phase and you should get a divorce attorney in.

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Married.

It’s our wedding anniversary today. 2 years. 63,072,000 seconds. 1,051,200 minutes.17,520 hours. 730 days. 104 weeks and 2 days.

In that time we have moved house, moved jobs, fallen pregnant, had a baby, had the worst fights of our lives and subsequently the happiest moments.

Marriage is hard. It’s a daily reminder that you have to work for the things you cherish the most, and that the results are more rewarding than money or gold.

Happy Anniversary to my husband. The man who loves me the most in the world. I love you back. Thank you for giving me our perfect child, constant support (and advice when I don’t actually want it) and for believing in me every step of the way.

Here’s to the next 2 years, and many more after.

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He's A Dad, Not A Babysitter.

I read this article a couple of years ago, before I was even considering having children, and even then, young and carefree, I thought to myself “this. This is how I plan on working a baby into our lives”.

To quote the article – a father should never be called or seen as ‘the baby sitter’. To imply that they are merely there as a temporary carer implies that their role is of lesser value and importance than the moms. As an example – you would never say to a mom who was out at the grocery store “Oh, I see you’re baby sitting today?”. So why would you ever say that to the dad?

When Carter was born there was an almost silent agreement between my husband and I that this was a dual role. That they baby was ours 50/50, and caring for him would be just that.

Even before he was born Barry came with me to every single ultrasound and checkup. I insisted he pay half the bills when my medical aid had dried up and we will split our childs cost equally going forward as well. Am I a bitch? Am I high maintenance? Absolutely not. I am one half Carters parent. Therefore I rely equally on my other half to come to the party when raising him. Not ‘help’ me to raise him. if I want help I’ll call his granny.

From day one he has been a hands on dad – we have split the night feed duties in half, he packs the nappy bag when we go out and changes the car seat base between cars (most of the time…). Just last night it was his turn on night duty (of course our baby then slept for 11 hours straight), and when I told people this, they were more shocked about the fact that he does ‘night duty. Yes, he bloody well does night duty – he also changes the nappies, baths him and puts him to bed on most nights. In fact, he comes home at a decent hour on most days, not to allow me to go run, but to give me time from my ‘job’ of mothering to go and exercise, to get some much needed ‘me time’. Plus, he knows that on Sundays he gets to disappear for several hours to hit the trails with some of his mates.

In less than 6 weeks I will be going back to work – which means we will both be full time working parents. Is it going to be easy? No. Is it going to be do-able? Absolutely, because my husband will do one half of the creche run, one half of the cooking (although I think that may be news to him) and one half of raising our child. 

I get that I am so so fortunate, and that many dads still see their role as the silent observer type. I also understand that there is a lot a man cannot physically do for his child, which may leave him feeling helpless (nursing being the biggest), but in times when a man can’t magically grow a set of boobs, he can bring his wife a glass of water, or make her a cup of tea. If baby is particularly mom-fuss on a certain day, hubby can help with the washing, or cleaning or cooking. Because it is 2015, and I know very few woman who don’t bust their ass every day in the office and work hellishly long hours too. 

Simply put, I try keep my hubby out of my blog, but sometimes a gals just gotta brag a bit. 

I got me a good one.

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