Pregnant or just fat?

It might just be ingrained paranoia but I've noticed that people have started staring at me. Some of them look quizzical, others look concerned and slightly disgusted (probably because I've just pulled an "I'm going to be sick any moment" expression) and others just plain gawp. I've decided that this probably has something to do with the fact that they can't work out whether I am actually pregnant or if I've just got an unusually large pot belly. At 17 weeks pregnant what you wear really makes a difference.

On a rare outing to the pub the other day I was wandering off to the loo (wearing a skirt held up with a hairband and spotty Boden top - I'm clinging to the Boden for as long as possible) when I encountered a group if clearly underage drunkards on the stairs. "Ahhh look," slurred one. "She's got a baby in her tummy." I smiled at this and thought - it's a good job I have because otherwise I may have had to slap you.

Mr Jones and I went to the Nutcracker at the Royal Opera House the other evening and had dinner before the performance (a bit poncy and we'd eat somewhere else next time - but pleasant all the same). Having battled my way through half a shallot tart tatin I gave up and sat rubbing my bump which was ensconced in a damson coloured Betty Jackson frock which still fits. The waitress came over and asked if everything was alright with my meal. After explaining I was full she remarked - staring disdainfully towards my distended gut - "yes you look full!" Mr Jones laughed - and I smiled kindly and said - "Well there is a baby in there too". "Oh" said she. "Congratulations" and ran.

If you see someone in the street who could perhaps, maybe, possibly be pregnant - just smile politely and try not to stare - it's really not nice being made to feel like a side show at a circus. Thoughtfully Baby Jones is still campaigning to prevent me from gaining too much weight - so I have little risk of becoming fat - so in my case it's all bump.

I had a dream...

...last night that my waters broke at a Spice Girl's concert in a caberet bar. I insisted that Mr Jones take me home to pick up my face wash before we went to the hospital. Hmmm.

Yesterday I didn't make it out of bed - which is probably a good thing given that Stamford is still covered in snow. Mr Jones and my mother have become very protective. Mr Jones doesn't want me to drive in the ice and my mother would rather I didn't walk anywhere for fear of my falling over. As I've been informed: "it's not all about you anymore".

Today I will be defying them both and will be scraping a week's worth of snow and ice off the car and taking Miss Penny to be de-fluffed. I will then be walking to the Pig Roll man to see if Baby Jones can't be tempted out of this current bout of hideous nausea with some stuffing and roast pig in a bap. If he's lucky he might get apple sauce too. Tonight all being well we're heading for a pizza in the Tobie - I am determined to eat.

The Strange Behaviour of Cats

It seems that pregnancy hormones do funny things to cats. Mr Jeremy - who is usually rather aloof and non-clingy has suddenly become my shadow. He likes to sit close to my face and has taken to dribbling on me with much affection.

Miss Penny - who I usually can't get rid off - is far less entralled by me and keeps trying to trip me down the stairs. We fear she has a vendetta against Baby Jones and will have to be watched in a FBI like way once he/she is born.

However - when Mr Jones is away - visiting the Scots as he is now - Miss Penny becomes a tad protective, especially when I'm being sick. As I kneel over the toilet bowl she likes to lick my leg or rub up against my back in an attempt to be soothing. She does not do this when Mr Jones is here - clearly she thinks it's his job, despite the fact that he never does it. (Not that I'd want him to lick my leg you understand - but the odd back rub wouldn't go amiss).

Feeling all creative and a bit festive...

To stave off the non-working boredom I thought I'd indulge in a spot of floristry. The smell of eucalyptus makes me feel better and concetrating on something other than Murder She Wrote must be good for my brain.

Behold my wreath - made with ingredients from Miss Pickering and my garden. The oranges I dried myself and they smell yummy. I now have florist fingernails - nice and grimey - and a sore back from standing for so long - but I think the results are worth it - don't you?

In other news Baby Jones seems to like pig rolls with stuffing and apple sauce - I'm thinking of installing a spit in the garden. My jeans no longer fit and are being held up with a hair band.

Beery boys + pregnant girls = yuck

If anyone is in need of a sniffer dog to solve a crime just give me a call - I'm currently in possession of a blood hound's sense of smell. Should the local hunt be short of a hound I'm your girl - if someone can pull me along in a cart because I really don't have the energy to run.

So it goes without saying then the nasty niffs are readily picked up and tranformed into stomach turning hell. The effectiveness of my overactive olfactory sense was demonstrated to excess last night when Mr Jones returned from a post football pub session.

He was soon asleep, snoring the foul stench of toothpaste mixed with beer into the atmosphere of our room. Bless him. I buried my face under the duvet and proceeded to suffocate. I shoved him to stop the snoring and received a brief respite. I'd just dropped off when he turned towards me and let out a huge sigh - I was awakened by stomach acid rising up my gullet.

Thus I spent the night sleeping on my left side, with my back to him. This morning I am the proud owner of one very crumpled left ear which aches when pressed. I did not sleep well. It goes without saying that Mr Jones' next pub trip will be followed by a night in the spare bed.

Headstands and hiccups

Not me you understand - if I was to stand on my head I dread to think what would happen - no not me, but Baby Jones.

I went back to the hospital today for a second scan, because at the first one Baby J was still growing his/her intestines outside his/her body. Apparently that's quite common at 11 weeks. I'm now happy to report that they are now fully inside where they should be. Not that Baby J wanted to show us that, upside down as he (lets call it a he for ease) was. He was flipping about, hiccupping, kicking his legs and waving his arms about.

I wore my glasses this time so that I could actually see the little critter. The midwife saw a lot more than I did - apparently he was praying(!) at one point and she could see his face and all sorts. It all looked a bit blurry to me but I nodded and smiled at her.

In two weeks he's grown to 7cm - which I suppose is justification for all the sickness and the fact that I am now comfortably filling my fat jeans again. The skinny pre wedding jeans are banished to the back of the wardrobe.

In other news my Grandma informed me that she suffered with the sickness until 20 weeks - joy of joys. Oh and we're very happy that Delia appears to have recovered from her hideous frozen mash and tinned mince phase and is back to speaking properly and cooking from scratch. Though I'm not convinced by a fruit cake that takes a week to make.