So, we’re now in the single figures and the countdown to baby number 3’s arrival – or as my body tends to do it, sometime in the next 8 to 10 weeks, the snuggy unborn child will hear the words ‘cesarean section’ and decide it’s time to get out of bed before having the proverbial covers reefed off them.
The ‘to do’ list for this little Bubba is slightly more basic than it was for the predecessors. Items like ‘snot sucker’, baby bath and rectal thermometer aren’t featured all having been variously discredited or binned over the years. In addition to the usual rounding up of baby clothes, tiny cot sheets and the old breast pump I’ve narrowed it down to five biggies that we actually need.
I’m not one for the ‘let’s see what they look like’ approach favouring a short list of boy and girl names in the old hospital bag. However, the problem with already having a boy and girl is that we’ve blatantly used up the favourite names so it does feel like we’re into seconds territory.
Also, in spite of my plying him with Christmas drinks, my hubby stubbornly refuses to re-visit the names I love but which he vetoed first and second time around (generally with his logic being that he knew someone awful by the name or that he could make a rude nickname out of it). I’ve tried the old ‘I’ll swap you perineal damage for a favourite name’ trick but clearly I’m not being descriptive enough as so far I’ve struck out there.
To date the only viable name on the table has been kindly nominated by the kids. It’s Peppa. Time to dash expectations on that front.
Nappies and all bottom-related stuff
Herself’s directive on knicks has led to a few months of a nappy-free household. Not for much longer. It’s time to cruise the aisles of the supermarket despairing at the 15c per nappy price tag – and hoping that at least one of the three gives my arse even half this thought and consideration in later years.
A Baby Monitor
After nearly 5 years of nearly continuous use our Tomy monitor is – much like myself, on it’s last legs. It remains plugged in to catch any middle of the night sickness and also to catch the conversational gems of toddler bedtime.That said it’s utterly useless as a portable monitor so I’ll be nerding up on reviews anytime soon – and if anyone wants to save me the hassle all recommendations are welcome!
A Spare Bed
I was naively determined that after my first baby was born we three would all snuggle down and enjoyable blissful sleeps and baby cuddles together in our bed. Oh for fuck sakes! The reality was, of course, quite different! After 3 days and nights struggling to get the hang of feeding and doing ridiculous things like changing the baby’s nappy DURING the night, we took the advice of a wise District Nurse and decamped hubby to the spare bed so he could have undisturbed nights of sleep for a week or two. On baby number two he happily stayed in there for weeks on end – while myself and Herself colonised the ‘big boy bed’. There was much less parental disharmony, absolutely no talk of post-partem divorce and a nappy was only changed if there was poo or serious leakage. We were sane. We were rested. It worked so well it’s probably the reason we’re even having a third baby!
On the off-chance that I actually at some point do experience a spontaneous labour, we’ve to get thinking of an action plan for Himself and Herself. We’re way less picky that we were three years ago and the basic qualifying criteria of candidates will be ‘keep them alive’, with or without the assistance of sugar, telly and bribes of all shapes and sizes until normal service resumes.
Getting these things off the list is the kind of new years resolution I can respond to – one with an imminent deadline. We’re one week into a room share between Himself and Herself which can so far only be described as both hilarious and an on-going process. There are three packs of teeny tiny nappies and a few large bags of cotton wool stashed in the spare room. The lucky old Usual Suspects will be sussed out about the chances of them being free for 24-hour call to tend to two charming and house-trained toddlers (form an orderly queue please). And I’m about to once more explain why a second degree tear entitles me to name the child after some much maligned schoolmate from the Holy Communion class of 1979.
At this rate, having the baby will be the easy bit.