Last Saturday I was convinced the chicklet was coming. I had a slight show. I had cramps. I had flu-like symptoms. And I had the kind of back pain that required a heat pack constantly and only eased when I sat down. I felt restless and cranky and didn’t quite know where to put myself. I told Mr Chick I thought it might be happening, and we did a little squeeeee, packed our bags and got snacks for the labour and put my sister on standby. On Sunday – the day before my due date – I had some waters breaking and the hospital asked me to come in and …
Very cheeky of me, I know, cramming two weeks of Up The Duff into one, but allow me a little leeway (I barely know my own name at the moment). Mr Chick took me for a Last Hurrah / babymoon / belated birthday weekend at my favourite hotel in Sydney last weekend, which was awesome, although I was very nervous the chicklet was going to come on the Friday night after we’d checked in. He was so low down and walking was tricky. When I sit still and he rolls around, I realise just how much of a BABY he is now. He’s a big boy. The doppler always shows …
I’ve been married 12 years to a guy who treats me like his personal slave, is critical of me and is crap in bed. We have a son together and I want to leave my husband and go it alone, but I’m worried about hurting him.
I have a confession to make. No idea if I’ve already made it because I have massive baby brain, but here it is: I was always, always, no doubts, no-talking-me-out-of-it going to have an elective caesarean.
We own a house together and got engaged but I don’t feel like he views us as a couple. He is also mean with money, won’t hang out with my friends and gets into moods if I do. I’m making myself ill over our future together.
I think it’s fair to say that I am starting to get over it. And, when you’re pregnant and so many things are out of bounds, you start to really care and rely on a few key items to keep you comfortable and on the level, mentally speaking. Here are mine, in no particular order.
I’ve been with my boyfriend for 6 years and we used to have sex like crazy, but for the past few years we’ve only been having sex once every 2 months. It’s awkward and I don’t even like making out with him anymore. It feels like he forgot what to do
I’m at the pointy end of pregnancy and by that I mean something big is pointing south. Dr Sharon tells me it’s the chicklet’s massive head. She didn’t say it it so many words, but according to her tape measure, he is a chunky monkey.
There are so many issues with this no-sex spreadsheet thing I hardly know where to begin. Is it her fault for sharing it? His fault for documenting her rejections? Both of their faults for not communicating about it better?
A few weeks ago, I touched on the whole fertility post-35 issue. For me, it became scarily personal around the age of 36, but it would be another three-odd years before I had to make some tough decisions about whether we needed help.
If men (or women) in uniform send you weak at the knees, you need to sign up to this bespoke dating site immediately…