Sadly, the kitchen floor did not do the trick. You could eat your supper off it though if you were prepared to face the wrath of a heavily pregnant girl by dirtying it up with lasagne. Hint: don’t. I’m seriously considering paper cups and plates until the baby arrives because now that I’ve got the washing up all squared away and the kitchen looking really nice it seems sacrilege to actually use it until after the baby’s seen it and acquired visible proof that once every couple of years its Mama is capable of some degree of tidiness.
I have allowed a little bit of cooking this evening though, I decided to take a leaf out of my Mum’s book for today’s method of induction. I was two weeks early one hot ’80’s summer but little sister took the crown for arriving in mid-December when she was due in early January (can you tell why I was surprised when Kit took the full 42 weeks!). Anyway, I digress. When Zee was born my parents were housemaster and chief moral support in a boarding house at the school where Dad taught. Mum’s theory was that when she went into labour after the house Christmas dinner it was entirely the result of a surfeit of CPK Christmas pudding, and Zee duly arrived in the early hours of the following morning.
Well, I can’t recreate the weighty produce of a school central kitchen even were I of the inclination to do more than the minimum on the cooking front (see aforementioned comments about kitchen cleanliness), and having left those halcyon days far far (and in the case of some of the culinary offerings, really far) behind me, I did what all good English girls do in such situations, and went to Marks & Spencer.
Two hours in a pan, lovingly tended by H while I put Kitty to bed, and a small dark fragrant dome plopped out of its plastic basin into my bowl. I’ve been polishing off a good slice while writing, accompanied by a brandy sauce so powerful that I can’t believe I didn’t have to prove I was over 18 to buy it. Seriously, I’ve had maybe two spoonfuls of a sauce that is 4.5% brandy and I think I can feel it. This is what comes of having been teetotal for the last three years (and some).
I’m a little disappointed to report that I’ve not even noticed an increase in Braxton-Hicks but on the plus side, it’s a lot (repeat ad infinitum) nicer than the ever dreaded raspberry leaf tea, and judging by the current wiggles, the baby really likes it.
The truth is that for all of my wanting to meet the wiggle-baby, being ready to meet him or her, and regardless of acupuncture, long walks, or even Christmas pud, this little one will be here in his, her or the doctors’ good time. I’m trying to be very zen about it all (maybe the acupuncture did do something after all) and just enjoy the last few days of Kitty’s being an only child.
Admittedly, a good proportion of those days have been giving over to ‘learning not to touch the Christmas tree’. It’s only come crashing down once courtesy of what did seem to me to be a rather minor Kitty induced wobble, and it’s now rather more firmly attached with fishing wire leading to three separate points concealed behind curtains and other places out of the casual gaze of a two year old so I have some hope for the survival of the remainder of our ornaments.
I can understand why it’s a difficult concept to grasp; I mean, if you’re two, and one chilly Saturday afternoon, rather than going to the club for orange juice and Mini Cheddars after the end of ‘Daddy Hockey’ you’re let out into what seems like an entire forest of fluffy green trees and Mama and Daddy let you run around and ask you to choose one, that’s pretty exciting.
And then they put it in the boot of the car, and you learn a new smell, and you can pat it from your car seat and everyone calls it ‘Christmas tree’ and start talking about lights and tinsel.
And then it snows…
Oh, OK, that one was Mama, PicMonkey and the influence of half a glass of cider. It’s snowed pretty much everywhere except Warwickshire so I had to improvise.
Suffice to say, tiny girl is entranced, and we’ve negotiated an uneasy compromise under which she is allowed to play with one ‘ornament’, a plastic door hanger that counts down the sleeps until Christmas, and a giant swathe of tinsel attached to the lounge door. So far, so good.
And as for the wiggle-baby. Well it could be tomorrow, it could still be weeks. Suffice to say; (a) I promise to introduce him or her at the first chance and (b) if we get too near to Christmas, I’m volunteering to ride the donkey.