Yesterday I wrote a cheque for new windows, my second attempt to get our windows replaced (the first floundered on the issue of scaffolding). Today I am overseeing the repairs to the storage heater in the living room, which has been out of action for more than a year. We want the Sett to be warm enough for Sprouticus, even though making it so is costing us a hell of a lot of money.
I’m eating oily fish twice a week at the moment – I have been throughout the pregnancy, but I’m concentrating on it now because it is a key time for brain development and have been completely teetotal for a few weeks for the same reason. Subtly, my priorities are shifting to those of mothers everywhere – safety, security, health, nutrition. It feels strange, but not altogether unwelcome.
We’re in the home straight now – 11 weeks to go, more or less, and only seven at work. My hospital bag is packed, except for nursing bras and jimjams, and a dog-sitting roster has been arranged. I’m still in the weeds at work and will only get more busy as yet more antenatal appointments fill up my diary, but I’m only part engaged – a large part of my brain is simply ticking loudly, counting down the minutes until we meet our son.