A musical interlude

From BBC One's Let's Dance for Comic Relief.
This song is one my sister and I like to fling ourselves around to dramatically after a few drinks - it depresses me that a man can look better doing it that we can!

Anyway - enjoy some comedy gold.

As the big day approaches

*My column for this week - apologies if some of it seems repeated from early blog posts.

There are few things guaranteed to make you feel less ridiculous than sitting, bouncing on a birthing ball, watching Sex and the City trying to pretend – for just one second – that there is a touch of glamour and excitement left in your life.
Yes, I’m just over a week away from my due date and things have started to hot up in the Allan household. (Although not, in any kind of Carrie/ Mr Big romantically charged way, you understand).
My standard evening now involves a very early change into my jammies and an hour or so either bouncing on or lying over an oversize gym ball in a bid to ease those deliciously deceptive Braxton Hicks contractions which have me wondering if labour is imminent at any moment.
I’m almost afraid to leave the house. And when I do I rush around as fast as my hugely pregnant belly will let me for fear of my waters breaking somewhere entirely inappropriate (like the school playground). My sister has suggested I start hanging around shops I like, you know just in case those rumours of shops being very kind to women who have almost delivered in the soft furnishings aisle are correct. I, however, can’t bear the thought of having to explain to anyone that no, I’ve not wet myself, and yes, I am having a baby and then having to worry about some first aiding stranger offering to give me a check over or deliver my baby amid the scatter cushions.
I’ve become mildly obsessed with Google and lists of symptoms of early labour – as if I haven’t been through it before. Although in fairness it was five years ago and my memory is very much clouded by a haze of gas and air.
I have also learned the very important lesson that should you even suspect, for a second, you are actually going into early labour the one way to stop any pains dead in their tracks is to tell someone else. A simple text to my mother “Not sure, but having a little pain” is more effective than an epidural for stopping pain in its tracks.
I have taken also to listening to a hypnobirthing CD – which is not as kooky as it sounds. Although I have yet to manage to listen to it the whole way through without falling asleep or failing to get my breathing right.
The gentle inhalation and exhalation it recommends tends to send me into it a fit of hyperventilation or I find I’m breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose which is the wrong way to do it. There is something terribly depressing about thinking that you can’t even get breathing right.
I should be very zen about it all, I know. Giving birth is, they say, the most natural thing in the world. Millions of women have done it – and many of them have done it more than once. My granny even managed it 10 times which is something I’m on total awe over because I’m a bundle of pre-natal nerves and hormones – which is so not a good mix.
Even my own (increasingly unsympathetic) husband has found his patience for my pre-birth nerves being tested. He tells me frequently I have done it before and survived so I’ll be just fine doing it again.
There are many things in this world people survive – it does not mean they are experiences any of us wish to repeat. I survived almost chopping the back of my foot off once when it got trapped in the spokes of a fast moving bicycle wheel – but I wouldn’t be doing a happy dance at the thought of a repeat performance.
Of course giving birth is different. You get something nice at the end of it. All I got at the end of the evil bike incident was a rake of stitches and some very attractive crutches. This time I’ll be getting a wee baby. (Or if current estimates are anything to go by, a relatively big baby). And of course a baby is much more preferable to a painful injury, even if the giving birth process sometimes feels somewhat the same except to a much more intimate area.
I’ll be completing our family (because believe me, I’m so done with this pregnancy carry on) and I’ll be entering a brand new phase of my life – one where I’m a mother of two. One where I will have to think of my son as a big brother and think of us as a family of four. I’m trying to focus on that – rather than the pain and the fear that I have over the actual birth experience. I’m also trying to focus on the fact that it will just be one day of my life of discomfort before I face a whole new world of excitement, joy and blessings.
Still, if you get the chance, offer up a wee intention for a quick and relatively painless birth experience for me. And say another one that I’m not writing a similar column again in three weeks bemoaning the joys of going overdue – for the sake of my sanity and everyone around me.

Lucky to have so much to lose...

I've been deeply (hormonally) moved by the death of six year old Ivan Cameron - son of Conservative party leader David Cameron.
It could be because he was a child not much older than my own gorgeous, vibrant son. It could be because the look of devastation on the faces of his parents in today's papers is almost too painful to see. It could just be that it sometimes feels as if there is no rhyme or reason in this world - how a gorgeously little boy can be so afflicted through his short life and then be snatched away from a loving family.

I've cried this morning - especially watching a phone in on 'This Morning' when agony aunt Denise Robertson broke down recalling the death of her own son.

It has made me realise how lucky I am - how blessed that today I kissed a healthy little boy on the cheek and told him I loved him and sent him out to school.

It has brought to mind a quote from 'Waiting for Birdy' (which I did promise to share some of...) In the preceding column Catherine Newman has written of how her son, three year old Ben, was rushed to hospital after taking sick. In the end it turned out to be a viral infection which wasn't serious.
She takes her son home, curls up watching old movies of him as a baby and writes : "We are so lucky to have evaded loss yet again. We are so lucky to have so much to lose."

I know what she means.

As promised, the nursery..

Sorry if all the posts of late have been somewhat baby focused. I'm trying to think of other things honest but my average thought process is something along the lines of "la la la, baby, la la la, labour, la la la, feck, la la la, cuddles, la la la baby, la la la labour etc etc etc"

My brain has already melted without the post natal hormones kicking in - oh it should be fun.

But anyway - here is the nursery. One of the nicer things to deal with while waiting for Bam Bam.

Did you know..

That prams are no longer called prams?
My new pram is actually an "infant travel solution".

So glad I know that.
Sounds very fancy. My car is now a "Grumpy Hormonal Woman Travel Solution" just so you know.

Waiting for Bam Bam...

Early in this pregnancy Joseph decided the baby in mummy's tummy would be referred to as Bam Bam. Even when we found out she was a she (and now that I have a pink festooned nursery I'm hoping they were right) he still insisted on Bam Bam - there was no change to Pebbles.
Now, however, he refers to her by her chosen name (which I will reveal here when she is born as even though my close friends and family know it I wanted to save at least one surprise for blog readers!). And yet part of me will always think of her as Bam Bam and at the moment, we are waiting for her - patiently.
A few weeks ago Keris lent me a copy of 'Waiting for Birdy' a collection of columns and musings by American writer Catherine Newman who wrote during her second pregnancy and early months of her second child's life.
This book has been my best friend these last few days and weeks. Because Catherine Newman knows exactly how I feel. She knows that while I'm very excited about our new arrival - I'm very nervous about the impact it will have on our existing child.
She knows what it is like to try and balance pregnancy with real life mega worries and try to stay sane. She knows what it is like to feel like death warmed up. And she knows how to make me smile and stay relatively positive.
She has given me hope it will be okay. (As indeed, I have to say, has Keris who is managing beautifully with her second baby at the moment...)

I fully intend to share some of her pearls of wisdom in the coming weeks - but if you are a mother, or a father, or a sister or a human then I recommend you read this book. You won't regret it.

Baby Watch - 2 weeks and 2 days left

Yes, yes, I know last week I forgot to do the three weeks and three days left. I'm sorry. By the time I remembered it was well into this week and I was thinking I'd just leave it.
Possibly because several times this week I have wondered "Is this it?" as waves of pain have crashed through me and I've started to swear a little.
And no, obviously, it never was it. The baby just likes to burrow. And wriggle and squirm.
Of course each time I've felt "is this it?" I've also taken a mild fit of panic and wailing. I am, I admit, scared of the whole process. Natural, my foot.
And yet every night I'm giving birth in my dreams in a variety of weird and wonderful situations.
Last night I gave birth in an lecture room while three seperate operations were carried out around me and my hubby was at home because it was late and he was tired.
Anxiety? Just a little!

But birth issues aside, we are trying to get the nursery organised.This involves moving our spare double bed up to the boy's room for him to enjoy. He is very excited - and I'm very jealous. A whole double bed to himself... the thing of dreams! I can't imagine I'll get a bed to myself for a very long time. And while I like the comfort of someone else in bed with me, I also like the utter decadence of being able to stretch out and relax.

I am also feeling brave and may hang the pink curtains. I had been resisting in case, you know, she comes out with a wanger - but the nesting need is just too, too strong.

So that's it for 2 weeks and 2 days. When I think of those figures I freak out just ever so slightly. I imagine next week, when it is one week and one day I'll be even more skittish.
And when it gets to the stage that I'm 10 days overdue and looking down the barrel at a syntocin drip expect complete mayhem.
Fortunately for you, dear reader, they do not allow live blogging from the labour ward.

I wrote!

And you know what, it really is sometimes just a case of what my fellow Derry writer Brian McGilloway says - sometimes you just have to sit down and fecking do it.
Sure my head has been mince (as my lovely VBF would say) the last few months but I have a book plotted and there in my head entirely and now I just have to fecking write the thing.
So this morning - no excuses. Even though I was in very bad form after a visit to the midwife (how can a midwife make me feel like an errant 2 year old just by looking at me over her specs?) I sat down and 1000 words of 'Ever After' poured out.
And you know what - there is nothing in it about poking pins into the arms of midwives or asking them to pee into ridiculously small plastic tubes while their stomach extends to the end of the bathroom or indeed weighing them and commenting on it. (For the record I am almost 38 weeks pregnant and have put on 2lbs the whole fecking pregnancy, so LEAVE ME ALONE).

Anyway - some of it, I think, was funny and I feel all proud of myself. I'm now going to cuddle my baby nephew for an hour and then get my gorgeous boy from school and then later I will just sit fecking down and writing some fecking more. So there.

The Jade Goody thing

So Jade Goody has just weeks to live – and it seems that we will be watching her every step of the way as she succumbs to cancer.
It’s ironic really that the woman who made a life for herself in a top rated reality TV show now faces ending her life in the biggest reality TV show of all time. The press, gossip columnists and TV producers of this country are falling over themselves to get the exclusives on the end stage of her battle, her big wedding, her looks of anguish and pain as she says goodbye to her children and, probably – ultimately – her funeral.
I can’t ever say I’ve been a fan of Jade Goody. Her battle with cancer has not really changed my opinion of her. I’m not one of those people who now finds myself falling over myself to call her a heroine or an inspiration. She is, basically, just yet another human being being battered into submission by cancer. I don’t feel any more sorrow for her than I do for anyone else who has found themselves in that same, horrendous position she is in.
But I have found myself wrapped up in the human tragedy of what is playing out in front of our eyes. And I’m almost ashamed of myself because it feels wrong to feel so caught up in the battle of a celeb to beat an illness that they now know they can no longer beat.
I’ve never met Jade, nor am I ever likely to, but I can’t help but feel that – perhaps simply because we are both women and both mothers – there is some kind of affinity between us. There is something in me that can only glimpse at the pain she must be feeling (emotionally and physically) and think that there but for the grace of God go I.
And while I find it deeply uncomfortable and gruesomely voyeuristic to watch her battle play out in the national press, I still can’t stop myself from reading, and watching and following this “story” intensely.
First of all I have to commend Jade for being so open about her cancer. It’s reported that since she was diagnosed with cervical cancer last year uptake for regular smear tests has increased more than 20%. Lord knows how many women’s lives will be saved because this woman has been open about her own circumstances.
It’s shocking that a 27 year old can have this illness at such an advanced stage. We’re led to believe it’s an illness which affects older women – so much so that regular screening for cervical cancer is now not offered until a woman is over 25. It used to be offered, as a matter of course, to any woman over 20. We have to wonder if this change is policy is going to cost yet more lives of young women who could be treated successfully should any problems be detected early enough? And we have to ask if it is acceptable that lives should be put at risk as part of what I can only see as a cost cutting exercise by the NHS.
Ultimately, however, the most shocking thing about the whole thing is that there are hundreds of thousands of women out there who aren’t attending regular screening through embarrassment or fear. Sure smears are not pleasant – I can’t think of a single woman who skips smiling to the nurse’s office for her three yearly date with a speculum – but a smear is much less embarrassing and uncomfortable than, I dare say, chemo or radiotherapy or telling your children you won’t be there to see them grow up.
Jade is one of those women whohas admitted she ignored the reminder letters from her doctors in the hope that she would be okay. This was despite an earlier test revealing abnormal cells. Many women out there, myself included, know how scary it is to have an inconclusive result come back from the lab and to be asked to have another test. Many of know how hard it is to wait for a second set of results and many women go through treatment to make sure those abnormal cells are treated as quickly as possible.
It’s beyond me how anyone could, even with the fear factor, ignore the need for further treatment or investigation but I’m also sure there is no one beating Jade up more about her past foolishness than herself.
I suppose we can only hope that her experiences will continue to inspire woman to take responsibility for their own health and realise that even though the chances of developing cervical cancer at such a young age are slim, they are still very real. We all need to get over our fear and embarrassment and get on that doctor’s table and undergo a short procedure in the hope it will save them a huge amount of pain and heartache in the future. (And perhaps I am just speaking with the false bravado of a woman facing labour and delivery head on and mentally preparing myself for leaving all shred of dignity at the door of the hospital).
It’s sad that it will take the death of a public figure – even if she is one who people either love or hate – to wake women up to the importance of regular screening but I suppose all anyone can do is cling on to any positive in a very negative and painful situation.
And we must remember that while Jade’s pain is played out in the press there are thousands of women experiencing just what she is just as courageously. They might not make the headlines but they, and their families, should all be in our thoughts too at this time and we, as women, have to hope and pray that a day comes soon when no more brave and courageous women are destroyed by this illness.

Some things just *feel* ridiculous...

So yesterday I was having pains pretty much all day.
My back ached, I felt sick - I started to wonder if the little lady was coming.
I phoned my husband tearfully at about 4.30 to ask him to come home from his meeting. I was a bag of cats.
I was not a nice person.
I did however insist on continuing to clean my house - which kind of made the back ache worse.

By evening I was being told to rest and see what happened so I took to my trusty birthing ball (great for back ache) and started watching my sister's Sex and the City box set.

There is something just so completely wrong about an eight and half month pregnant woman bouncing on a birthing ball watching sexually graphic content in the form of light entertainment.

I was also acutely aware that the baby can now hear just about everything that goes on outside the womb - have I corrupted her already?

If only it were that easy...

This morning I dreamt (is that right? or should it be dreamed? Well you know what I mean.) that I could feel my daughter's arm wriggling on the outside of my hip (still inside the skin, if you get what I mean but I could feel and hold her hand). I was mildly freaked out in the dream and called my hubby to see, by which stage I could see her entire outline inside my t-shirt. So lifted it, and there she was, painlessly born and gorgeous.
I'm a big fan of the "beam me out, Scotty" approach to childbirth and had hoped someone would discover how to do it before she made her arrival. I have to say my dream experience was really quite pleasant.
My baby girl was gorgeous, a mop of dark hair (her brother had blonde fluff when he was born) and had the cutest toes. It was nice to hold her in my arms - if only in a dream - for a little while.

Go on - be a fan

If you are Facebook-y at all, you can now be a fan of me and my writing.
Ya know, if you want to.

Claire Allan- Facebook Fan Page

Random conversations with the boy - a couple of one liners...

While watching Dancing on Ice
"Mummy, can we go to DFS one day? I really want a more comfortable landing..."

While talking about his birthday party (just over a week ago)
"No. We didn't really talk about it too much. It was a long story ago now mummy, don't you know?"

A pox on my house...

Well not exactly the pox, but this is more a be careful what you wish for kind of a post.
Today was, to me, my first official day of maternity leave. Although I finished work over a week ago, the boy was on mid term break so last week was the relaxing daytime telly fest I dreamed of.
Having been hugely pukesome ill yesterday I was looking forward to a day lounging on the sofa - in pjs -with occasional bouts of writing thrown in if I felt up to it.
This morning I woke however feeling strangely bereft. My boy was going to school. The distraction of his constant chatter and craic was going to be missing and in the absence of his sister making an appearance yet, I was going to be lonely.
Worse still I was going to have time to think about "the birth".
I do not like thinking about "the birth". It makes me very nervous and weepy because I am a yella-bellied-lily-livered chicken.
So this morning as I sent him on his way I felt so terribly sad that I had (yet another) hormonal cry.
Soon after I crawled back into bed to make up for the sleep deprivation of 24 hours of vomiting and was woken after an hour by the phone.
It was the boy's school. He had fallen and banged his head. I needed to come see him. He was okay, they reassured me. It was school policy that after any sort of knock to the head mummies and daddies need to be called.
Now in my half dozed state I replied very calmly that I was on my way and quickly changed and got into the car.
It was only on the 5 mile drive there that I started to panic. What if he wasn't okay? What if he was seriously injured? Or dead? I mean you read about these things in Take a Break magazine all the time. Sad mother one says "They told me he was fine and just to get there as soon as I could. Of course they were going to tell me he was fine so I wouldn't cause an accident by driving like a mad eejit across town weeping and wailing. When I got there he was dead."

Of course the rational part of my brain kicked in that if he had been seriously injured I would have been directed to the hospital and not the school.
And then Mrs Irrational chipped in with "unless, ya know, he is dead and there was little point in the hospital after all".

When I arrived at the school I was met with an ashen faced classroom assistant - by which stage I was almost passing out with fear. She told me he was in the classroom and as we approached I could see no sign of any boys or girls at their desks. Oh. My. God. This did not bode well.
Of course she then opened the door and he was sitting - ice pack to head - at the front of a group of kids gathered on the carpet reading about the letter i.
He did have a horrendously painful looking bruise and grazing and is now sporting a rather nifty egg. But he was very much alive and 20 minutes later was eating a bun, sat on the sofa watching cartoons with his favourite teddy.
So my bereftness at him leaving me for the day was gone - but he was there. Happy, healthy and a little bit bruised. But thankfully I've not sob story to sell to 'Take a Break'.

I may have exceeded my rationality quota

Okay - I'm sick. And spectacularly sick at that. I woke at 3 this morning with strong pains and wondered if babby was planning on making an early arrival.
An hour later I realised what I was mistaking for the miracle of childbirth was actually a particularly nasty stomach bug. I have been puking - and moaning - ever since.

Now you would think that after 8 months of hyperemesis I would be well used to the puking by now and in so many ways I am. I have mastered the art of the casual vomit - which is the ability to run to the loo mid sentence, puke, then come back and finish the sentence as if nothing untoward had happened.
I have mastered puking in work, getting cleaned up and making sure my hair remains vom free, before going back to my desk and working on a witty line or two for my column.
I have become - and this is something of an achievement for me - a master puker.

But today is different. Today I feel absolutely pants. And being sick makes me feel more sick and I've taken to weeping and wailing while my stomach turns itself inside out. I am not a good patient.

But I knew the hormones were getting to me when the boy was sick also (although he seems to have recovered now) and then the husband declared he was feeling a bit peaky.
Did I lavish on maternal and wifely love and concern? Did I mop their brows and offer to share my sick bucket with them? Did I soothe in the way a wife and mother should?

Well, with the boy I did a little. I shooed him downstairs with his duvet and have allowed him free run of the DVD players and enough ice lollies to shake a stick at (fluids, you see. Very important). I have cuddled him after he's been sick.

But hubby... and here is the shameful part... I guldered (and that is a Derry word for barged) "You can just feel sick!"
Not my finest hour by a long shot. But I just felt a little like "Can't I even puke on my own?" in a highly pregnant irrational stylee.
In fairness he now feels better and has been a perfect nursemaid.
Perhaps not the best valentine's weekend in history but I guess at times like these you realise what really is important in a relationship - and the ability to deal with a wife doing her very best beached whale impression, moaning and sweating, crying and puking and being a bit of bitch is right up there.
So while I wasn't intending to share my love this valentine's weekend on the tail end of a post about vomit - here's to you Mr. Allan - my knight in shining armour. And if you want to feel sick, please go ahead...

Ouiser's back...

I'm tired.
I'm uncomfortable.
Something keeps clicking in my pelvis in what I am convinced is a totally unnatural way. (Transfomers, baby in disguise)
I feel as if I might burst into tears at a drop of a hat.
I'm catastrophising like a good 'un (what if? what if? what if?)
I feel like I'm letting my son down by being a grumpy fecker.
I didn't write yesterday.
I have been having mild but fairly regular pains since last night - not getting any worse so I think it's just one-of-those-things
I dreamt that my husband dug up our garden last night and that filled me with rage even though it was only a dream as I love our garden. He couldn't quite understand my off-handedness this morning.
I am exceptionally, very, over the top-ly grump.

There are some benefits to the insomnia..

Last night it was 5am before I dosed off. And it wasn't down to pains, or nausea (well, only mild nausea) or heartburn. I just couldn't sleep. My brain just wanted to stay awake.
I tried getting up for a while. I tried climbing into bed beside the boy and snuggling him - but ya know a single bed and a starfish impersonating five year old and eight month pregnant lady is not a good combination.
I tried at times both hugging the hubby and barging at him to stay away from me because he was breathing too loud.
I tried drifting off into my make believe world in the hope that I would bore
myself to sleep - thing is though, I just woke myself up more. The next chapter of 'Ever After' played out in my head - trhe plot filling in the lines as I tried to get to sleep and while that can be exceptionally, very annoying it is also a great buzz. When you see a book play out in front of your eyes when you are writing dialogue in your head at the speed of light when it all seems to be good.
'Ever After' is taking me the longest of all my books to write, but what I am writing of it I love. It's quality and non quantity that really matters - non?
Hopefully the lovely people at Poolbeg will feel the same.

Oh and once I got to sleep, at 5am, I slept on through til 10 with only occasional heavily pregnant comfort breaks. How can it be I'm surviving on 5 hours sleep a night? Or maybe that is why I'm so damn cross today. It might be about time to bring Ouiser out again..

So I eventually got to sleep..

... at just gone 4am.
At that stage Joseph had climbed into bed between me and hubby and had snuggled his pudgy little arms around me.
All the aches and pains, and over active thoughts left my head and I drifted off into a blissful sleep.
Hubby disappeared to the spare room about an hour later - I was vaguely aware of his leaving - which left just me and the boy for a mega snuggle.
Joseph woke just before 9 and went downstairs with his daddy and I slept on til 10.30.
I had to call into work today for a meeting and was told I already looked more rested - perhaps insomnia agrees with me.

Tonight I'm opting for the 'stay up late til I'm almost boking with exhaustion' method of sleep induction... so far, I'm distracting myself with writing and CSI and the lovely pressure pains have kicked in now - so hopefully by the time I stumble upstairs they will be done for the night.

Eating Coco Pops...

At 2 in the mornings.
I can't sleep.
It's not that I'm not tired. I'm bone tired. I am SO very, very tired.
I went to bed just after 10 because I was so tired. Admittedly, I read for a bit first ('Waiting for Birdy' - loaned to me by Keris and it's brilliant and very appropriate).
But since about 11, I've been trying to sleep.
First of all, the baby decided to wake up. She's been very quiet all day - to the point I was starting to get quite worried - but nope, once I lay down she went into overdrive. There was kicking, punching, wriggling, hiccuping and rolling.
So that calmed down, eventually and the restless legs started. Full on mega jumps.
That's still there.
And then Madam decided she wanted to move directly onto my bladder so that every 3.5 seconds I need to go to loo - and quickly.
And then I started to feel a kind of strange sick/ hungry feeling (hence the Coco Pops... which, you know I buy for Joseph... allegedly).
And now that I've got up, the achey pains have started. At the moment I'm getting them for about 2 hours a night - but usually earlier in the evening. You know that kind of dragging, periody (sorry male readers...) achey back, pressure in your butt feeling that only comes at 8 months of pregnancy? Yup... that's the one.
So I'm online, and I might take to bouncing on my birthing ball and watch an episode of Sex and the City - I have never felt so further apart from Carrie and the gals... but hey, I have to get my glamour kicks somewhere.

Oh I have a feeling the next four weeks are going to be fun, fun, fun!

Libraries and pretending to be professional

On Thursday night past I was invited along to our local library to take part in a Writers in the Community event. I would be sharing the platform with local journalist and political satirist Garbhan Downey and really rather successful Macmillan crime writer Brian McGilloway. I have spoken to both of these men over the years as my writing career has taken off so I wasn't intimidated by them as much as intimidated by their clever use of literary writing and big words.
So I arrived, and being just out of work, let the two guys go first and do their talks and their reading.
All the while thinking "They are reading serious political/ crimey type stuff" and I'm about to stand up and read an extract which involves references to shagging, knickers and undercarriages. (All in relation to infertility, it has to be said - it wasn't just shagging for the sake of it.).

Looking around me at the room I tried to gauge what the average age of the audience was - and indeed would they be offended by references to shagging, knickers and undercarriages. With a fair few in their more mature years. I started to get worried.

But I had, you see, little choice. My books are very honest, and very real. The lovely Garbhan Downey said they were "near the knuckle" but to be honest. I don't think they are that bad.
RD&T has one very minor love scene and it's very tame - no groans, or tweaking nipples or the like.
FLM is a little more risque but the more "colourful" of the love scenes are between a married couple - so allowed, by God and everything. And yes there is a reference to a blow job - but it's not detailed.

The thing is I'm not Jackie Collins and nor do I desire to be so. But I do think 'chick lit' has to be real and has to be honest and sex is an honest part of life.

That's not to say I wasn't worried what my granny would think when she read it - but she thought it was okay so I'll carry on as I am.

And in the end, the library crowd laughed at the right bits, clapped at the right bits and asked nice questions. So I think. I retained some sense of dignity.

Claire has left the building...

I walked out of the Derry Journal yesterday and, with the exception of a few meetings etc, don't expect to be back there for quite a long time.
Yes, maternity leave has arrived. My colleagues will no longer be subjected to me crying at the drop of a hat. My long suffering husband will now have that joy.
Well the plans for the next few weeks? Apart from lying over a birthing ball moaning I'll be editing 'Jumping in Puddles' to within an inch of its life and working hard on 'Ever After'.
I also have full intentions of watching the entire Sex and the City Collection.

And then, I might just give birth.
I'm looking forward to Sex and the City more - although I am looking forward to meeting my baby girl very much indeed.

Bizarre as it sounds though I will very much miss life in Derry Journal country. It ain't always easy (easier than pushing a baby out yer foof, admittedly) but I work with amazing colleagues and the banter is second to none. And of course hearing all the scandal first is brilliant for a nose bag like me.

I will still be submitting my weekly column so in the words of another famous N. Irish person "I've not gone away, you know" - but there are definitely interesting times ahead.

A heart of gold

Children these days get a bad press. Of course we parents are generally to blame for spoiling them rotten and sparing the rod and all sorts of other nonsense - but it is a truth that even the youngest children get a rough ride in the press these days.
I’ve listened to (and actively participated in, it must be said) numerous discussions around the attitudes of a younger generation who, it seems, are increasingly self centred, undisciplined and prone to temper tantrums which leave my hormonal rages looking like a civilised tea party. One view of ‘Supernanny’ is enough to leave most of us parents quaking in our boots and while such extremes of behaviour are thankfully not the norm, there is not one mum or dad out there who can watch such programmes without offering up a quick “there but for the grace of God, go I” intention.
It’s not often enough then that we tell the stories of children who make us so proud that our hearts want to burst with pride. It’s certainly not often enough that we hold these children up as examples of what it truly is to be a decent human being who appreciates that acting selflessly is something to be admired and not a sign of weakness.
I’ll admit the story I’m about to tell is a little on the biased side but this week I have been so touched by the actions of my seven year old niece that I couldn’t not mention her in this column this week. In many ways Abby is a typical seven year old.
She has bags of attitude, an obsession with Hannah Montana and High School Musical and the ability to wilt you with a single glance. She’s just about passed that stage where she thinks everything her Auntie Claire does is cool and funny. Now my silly dances or corny jokes are likely to be met with a warm-hearted roll of the eyes as she tries her best to humour me. I can no longer make her laugh ‘til she pukes - which frequently was the case in her baby years.
While she adores her little cousin (my five year old) there are times now when it is clear she is merely tolerating his primary one excesses as she is now a big primary three girl and, obviously, much, much cooler.
She likes to dress in Uggs and slather her face with her Auntie Lisa’s sparkly eye shadow. She makes up dance routines along with ‘Dancing on Ice’ and makes us score her as if we were the judges. But for all her precociousness she is at heart just a seven year old and one who adores cuddles and kisses and curling up on the sofa with her loved ones.
And she has a heart of absolute gold.
Sadly, for her young age, she has been dealing with a very difficult situation for last wee while - knowing that her lovely granny (her daddy’s mammy) had cancer. It is the hardest thing in the world to try and explain cancer to a young child. Harder still to explain to them that their beloved granny - who they have adored from the day and hour they were born - was not going to get better. Sadly Abby isn’t and won’t be the only child ever to face such a loss.
Last week she was taken to visit her granny in the Foyle Hospice - and we all knew at that stage that unfortunately things had taken a further turn for the worse and it was just a matter of time. hearts and flowers Abby came home - understandably quiet - and ran upstairs to talk to her granddad (my daddy).
A few minutes later she ran back downstairs, opened the drawer in the kitchen reserved for all sorts of bits and bobs and lifted a Foyle Hospice copper hunt box and ran back upstairs. It was the following day, when I visited her again, that I saw what she had done. She taken the box, turned it inside out and decorated it.
Her childish handwriting spelled out ‘Help the Foyle Hospise’ (sic) and ‘Show You Care’ and ‘Show you love’. She had drawn on hearts and flowers in bright pink marker and reassembled the box.
In the true spirit of her seven year old attitude she had then taken to not letting anyone in or out of the house without first securing a donation for the people who were looking after her granny Lynne. She had then insisted on getting all her family members to bring the box into their workplaces and see what support they could rustle up. Sir Alan Sugar would have been proud of her ingenuity - but not half as proud as I was and am.
Yes, it breaks my heart that any child has to know what a Hospice is in the first place. It breaks my heart that sadly her granny lost her very brave battle on Tuesday night and that my gorgeous little niece is now dealing with grief for the first time at such a young age. But I cannot express the pride and the love that I feel for a child who thinks that such an action can make a difference - perhaps not to her granny (who I’m sure would have been so hugely proud of her too) - but all those people who need the help of the Hospice.

Baby Watch - 4 weeks and 4 days left...

Have you guessed what I'm doing yet?
First it was six weeks and six days, then five weeks and five days and now it's four weeks and four days to go.
How do I feel? Very emotional for a number of reasons. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't really, really scared of labour and delivery. I know I've done it before and lived to tell the tale but it didn't rank among my most favouritist experiences ever.
At the same time I am reaching the "Please God, can we just get it over with?" stage. I know it has to be done, so can we please just do it and get it over with and leave me and my stitches to heal in peace?
I'm also nesting - but not productively. Our spare room remains a spare room - just stacked with baby things. It is not the nursery of my dreams yet. And while I had thought that wouldn't bother me at all (given that madam will be with us in our room for the first 6 months anyway) i'm now getting irrationally irritated by it.
Her new cot remains in my parent's attic. My very gorgeous godson is still sleeping in her crib (and I feel like an evil landlord requesting it back just in case madam comes early).
If she were to arrive right now she would have nowhere to sleep.
Joseph has (mostly down to me, I have to say) taken to sleeping in our bed every night. I have that awful "my baby is going to have my divided attention soon and I want to drink him now" emotional wobbles. But "cross for own back" springs to mind, and DH has slumped to the spare room/ nursery in waiting for decent sleep - while I'm surprising welcoming the cuddles from an over eager five year old most nights.
I so want to be a mammy again - but so scared of getting it wrong again, of getting that nasty old PND and going super loopy.
So with four weeks and four days to go - it's fair to say the hormones have landed.
It's only going to get worse between now and the big day!

I'd like to say...

...it is very difficult to concentrate on anything when you feel as if your waters may pop at any second.
I swear madam is now actually in the foof area and her stretching and poking is making for some very intriguing sensations. I can also hear pops and clicks from time to time and I spent today in work worrying (probably very much unnecessarily) that I was going to have to explain a big puddle under my desk.

I'm not due for another month but I'm really starting to worry that very soon I'm going to have to say, out loud, in a public place "Erm, honestly. It's not pee. My waters have gone."

Birthday Blessings

Yesterday the boy turned five.
I was determined that even though he is having his proper party on Saturday he would have a fun day. I woke him to a chorus of 'Happy Birthday' - which to be honest, given my singing, wouldn't be the best start to anyone's day.
Then his daddy made him bacon sandwiches as a treat before he got dressed in his school uniform and I pinned a 'Birthday boy' badge on his jumper before showering him with a stupid amount of kisses.
I took an early release from work to pick him up from school and once he was lifted - along with his cousin - we went to the toy shop where he could choose his present. (A vay cool boat from the Fisherprice Imaginext range, just so you know) and then we went to local ice cream parlour for a treat. (which in fairness, given my high levels of heartburn was more for me than them).
It was an inexpensive, fairly basic little treat but both Joseph and his cousin's face lit up like Christmas trees when their 'Little Bears Picnics' were sat in front of them. Fiorentinis - an old fashioned cafe which does the finest homemade italiam cream - is a legend in the fair city of Derry and it did not disappoint us yesterday. I think I may have a new craving to replace the cornettoes.
My face also lit up when my honeycomb sundae was sat in front of me and I staved off attempts by the two kids to steal any of my icecream as if it were the most precious thing in the world. (Think Gollum in LOTR and you are about half way there).

The kids then came back to my house for a couple of hours and used their finest fake American accents to play Imaginext and then it was over to granny's for the traditional Davidson birthday tea.

Sure I threw up afterwards and sure I spent most of it wondering if the 3rd of February would be this latest baby's birthday too, but the boy had a blast and it was a very happy mummy and son who had a cuddle at bedtime.

Late last night we had some bad news that my gorgeous little niece's granny had passed away. It made me appreciate the lovely day we had and the amazing blessings I have all the more.
So happy birthday baby boy - you make it okay.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty...

A survey this week, commissioned by a bottled water company, has revealed that women feel at their most attractive at the grand old age of 32.
Apparantly at this age the follies of youth (frizzy perms, dodgy skin, questionable fashion sense) are most likely to have gone and instead women have reached a certain maturity where they have discovered their sense of self, grown into their features and take care of themselves better than ever before.
Dear reader, let me paint you a very different picture. I’m 32 (and indeed shall be for another five months) I sit here before you a picture of non-attractiveness. I am 35 weeks pregnant. I have a stomach so distended I can feel my unborn baby punch my considerable thighs. On my stomach there is a fine coating of downy hair - one of the lovely symptoms of pregnancy no one really warns you about. At least, however, the downy hair goes someway to cover the mass of stretchmarks which still exist from the first time I thought it sensible to decide to pro-create. (No new ones have emerged, but as my mother so lovingly reassured me it is “only a matter of time”).
My hair is wiry. It would not look amiss on the end of a toilet brush. It does not glow or shine with the bloom of pregnancy. It sits, generally quite lank, around my face which - it has to be said - has seen much better days. I thought when I left my teenage years I would lose my ability to sprout ‘blemishes’ (the nice word for zits) at a daily - and indeed sometimes hourly - basis.
And generally speaking I did. I did okay through my 20s and even through my previous pregnancy but this one - oh Lord. Clearasil should have me on a retainer. My face has not bloomed - it has positively erupted, and there is only so much repair work a super strength foundation and concealer will do.
What has bloomed - in stark contradiction to the wiry, increasingly grey hair on my head - is the hair on my legs. It seems to reappear almost as soon as the razor is placed back on the shelf and believe me shaving one’s legs in an advanced stage of pregnancy is at best tricky and at worst down right dangerous. I dread the day my obituary reads that I severed a vital artery while shearing the inch long hair from my calves. Worse still is that I’ll be laid out with a half shaved leg... and the unkemptness of my calves will be there for the undertaker to see.
Mercifully my weight has not increased and while that is something I’m happy about, it has been merely because I have spent at least five minutes of almost every day of the last eight months throwing up. Regardless of the effect that has had, or not had, on my overall weight it has not done anything to improve my feelings of general attractiveness or confidence in my ability to be an attractive lady.
I’m paranoid that a faint whiff of sick follows me at every turn - and I don’t even have the baby in arms yet to blame. (Oh yes, I have the smell of baby spew to look forward to.)
I discovered I was with child four days after my 32nd birthday so it has been far from my most glorious year. Sadly I think my most glorious year has passed - at a time when I didn’t appreciate just how glorious it was. I look back at pictures of me in my mid 20s. I was relatively slim - with actual cheekbones and a jaw line as opposed to my sagging jowls of my 30s and I could weep. My skin and hair glowed with vitality - no doubt down to the strict eating regime which preceded my wedding at the very tender age of 24. I refused to wear make up in the run up to the wedding to give my skin a chance to breathe and recover. I would be beyond brave to make the same decision now - I would scare small children (especially my own, and they have to love me... it’s the law).
Of course at the time I hit myself with every negative thought in the book. I convinced myself I was a fat bride (oh to be so “fat” again!) and wept at my wedding photos considering myself still very much an ugly duckling waiting for the day she turned into a beautiful swan.
It’s only now - at 32 - when my feathers are getting distinctly stubbier and browner day by day that I realise that I was, at one stage, actually quite pretty. Okay, so Angelina Jolie never had anything to worry about but I was passable. Perhaps once the ravages of hormones leave my body sometime in mid-March I’ll start to feel a little more upbeat and feminine again.
Perhaps the last three months of my 33rd year will indeed prove the water bottlers and their researchers right. Then again perhaps I need, like so many of us, to start appreciate what attributes I do still have because it could come to the stage than in ten years I’m weeping over photos of me with my newborn baby and wondering why I felt so utterly unattractive back then.

Just a Sunday morning pondering..

I am a self confessed 'tangent girl' - my brain goes on weird and wonderful trips some time.
Anyway this morning Joseph asked if we could make a St. Brigid's Cross as, indeed, it is St. Brigid's Day (and thus according to Irish tradition tomorrow is the first day of Spring.. and it['s due to snow... butI digress - see tangent in operation there...)
Now I was never very good at making St. Brigid's crosses - as we would say round these parts they are footery wee buggers. But my daddy - a primary school teacher - is somewhat of an expert.
So I decided to enlist him but first tried to think where I could get my hand on some rushes to make the aforementioned cross.
I remembered back to when we were wee and there was an overgrown, derelict piece of land between our primary school and home and we would walk through it every day. It was excellent rush gathering fodder - but now it's all bungalows and sheltered accommodation and not ripe for the picking.
But my mind wandered on to that particular piece of wasteland where we would spend hours building huts, letting our imagination run wild etc.
Part of the area (to my memory... which was hazy) was an old run down grotto. Or at least we always thought it was an old grotto. Chances are it was the side end of an outside toilet or something equally glam.
I remember once, sitting at this 'grotto' and contemplating what my teacher had told me that day. Someone had said they adored their parents.
This was wrong - our teacher said - you could not adore or worship anyone but God. And while I get the worship bit, I wonder how it was possible not to be 'allowed' to adore another human being (adore in my book being an extreme feeling of love - not, ya know, building a shrine in a kind of a freaky way...)
The same teacher would have imprinted on us very strongly that pride was a sin. It was a sin to be proud of your achievements, your family, and I suppose taking it to it's logical conclusion your children. He was very adamant about that too.
I've never quite got that one - but I've always felt a little sinful or wrong feeling proud of things I've achieved.

There is a Phillip Larkin poem about parenthood which goes a little something like this...

They f*ck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f*cked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

I'd like in turn to thank that particular teacher for his role in my unending Catholic guilt - my parents (including my daddy who tells me frequently he is proud of me) never did half as much damage.

25 random things (for people who don't 'do' Facebook.

Here it is, 25 random facts about me...

1: I don't always react to to things immediately. Quite often I exude a certain calmness but that is more than likely catatonic shock. It always comes after though - generally when I least expect it.
2:Other times I react to things before they have happened. My work colleagues who have seen me cry on an almost daily basis recently will vouch for that.
3: When I was young I used to pray that God would make Princess Leia my best friend. I still kind of wish that God would answer that one.
4: I fully realise that most of the time I am a mardy, needy person and I apologise unreservedly for that.
5: I really do believe in the healing power of angels. But the song "Angels" by Sarah McLachlan makes me cry in a not nice way.
6: I love my car deeply and passionately (but not in that way which some people do were they actually physically 'love' their cars... ).
7: Quite often, when I'm driving, I get a woohoo feeling that I'm driving and feel grown up and important.
8: I sometimes get that woohoo feeling walking through bookshops and seeing my books. Although I have never moved them to the front of the shelves.
9: Sometimes I don't know who is the bigger child - my husband or my actual child. I know which one is easier to manage.
10: I do love my husband - despite that fact. But if I'm ever done for murder you can refer to the above point.
11: I am really rather behind on my fourth book. I'm blaming baby brain and work worries.
12: At 32 I still need my mammy to hold my hand when I go to the dentists.
13: I am mildly obsessive about not being able to leave unmade beds before I go to work in the morning. I will feel anxious about it all day and will have to make the bed first before getting into it again.
14: I think my brother is more talented than I'll ever be and I want him to get the recognition he deserves.
15: Sometimes I think I reveal too much to the good people of Derry in my weekly column.
16: I am currently obsessed with cornettos.
17: I have shoes in my wardrobe which I have never worn but will never throw away as they are just flipping pretty.
18: One day I WILL fit back into my wedding dress. I might be dead by then but I give you full permission to dig me up and dress me in it...
19: I have a mild obsession with David Walliams - even though I know he really is quite revolting.
20: I continue to have an obsession with Dermot Murnahan - it's the eyebrow I tell you.
21: Obsession also exists for Hugh Laurie but only in House - it's the sarky American drawl that does it.
22: There are very few people in life who would pick me out of a line up to be on their team.
23: I have no problem at all with taking anti-depressants.
24: I cannot sing. Not at all. Not even a little. I mime a lot though.
25: I crave a tidy house.

The highlight of my day

In just about 30 minutes I will leave my workplace.

I will get in my car and drive through the rush hour traffic.

I will stop at my aunt's house and knock on her door and her mad dog will bark at me when she answers.

I will walk into living room and this face will greet me.

And he will probably give me a smile and a kiss. If I'm lucky he'll tell me he loves me. I'm guaranteed that this particularly affectionate child will tell me he loves me at least once before he goes to bed. (He'll prob throw a fit at the thought of going to bed too. He's not perfect. We get daily cries of "But aaaaammmm plllaaaayyyiiiiiiiinnnng" and "Fine then!" etc)

All I know is that no matter how long the day, no matter how stressful the events, no matter how much there is to do or much I feel battered from the inside, a hug from my son makes it worthwhile.

I will never tire of that first smile at the end of the day.

Baby Watch - Five weeks and five days to go...

So this is (in cartoon form) what she looks like just about now. I wish my butt was as slim and my legs as free from cellulite as this lady's.
Madam is VERY active - hugely active. She never stops. A work colleague commented on how often I rest my hand my hand on my bump yesterday and I tried to explain it was merely because she is constantly on the go and I'm trying to calm her.
I have a feeling she is going to be a real live wire when she gets here... contrary to my original theory that difficult pregnancy would equal easy baby.
I'm starting to get scared - very scared (but also excited).

Now I would embed this video, but for those of a semi sensitive disposition I decided not to.
But when she moves - she reminds me of this You Tube Video - (and it's nothing dirty just a VERY wriggly baby).

No... don't buy too much pink..

..And I didn't think I had. In case, you know, madam comes out with a wanger. Joseph insists should this be the case we should call her Connor - just like his best friend's baby brother. (He's not all that inventive, bless him... but still it's better than the Bumfarto he suggested a few months back..).
So I honestly thought that with the exception of the half price curtains, rug, lampshade, car seat and buggy (still boxed and in wrappers) there had been very little of the pink ilk bought.
Indeed packing my hospital bag I have slipped in only white baby-gros and hats and towels. There is nothing remotely girlie in there (apart from the mahoooosive night dress I will most likely give birth in... I reserve the right to retain at least a leeeeetle bit of glamour while I'm screaming for an epidural...).
Yesterday however I decided to sort through the new stuff (and that's not including the reams of stuff I have received pre-loved from generous friends and family). Sorting out the ickle baby stuff and 3-6 month stuff I came to the conclusion that I have in fact, bought quite a substantial amount of pink.
I've just been buying in things in little bits and pieces so I was not at all aware of what I was amassing. There were pink socks, pink tights, pink dresses, pink rompers, pink vests, pink cardigans, pink blankets, pink soothers, pink bibs (which say 'Nobody puts baby in a corner' - gotta love it), pink blankets, pink trousers, pink tops etc etc.
Five words.
Explosion. In. A. Marshmallow. Factory.

Over the Moon

Wish I could give you more info, but thought I would flag this up anyway.
On March 26, Poolbeg (the lovely people) will be releasing a non-fiction collection under the title 'Over the Moon' in which various writers (moi included) will talk about their experiences of parenthood.
Anyway, it can now be pre-ordered at Amazon and all proceeds are going to the Crumlin Hospital for Sick Children in Dublin. (Nope, I don't get a penny!). So do yourself a favour and order a copy now.

Depression good for you? What a sick joke!

A study this week by overpaid boffins at New York University has claimed that being depressed is actually good for a person and, in addition, taking medication to tackle that depression could actually be stopping people achieving their goals.
They (the overpaid boffins) have said that extreme sadness or depression can actually help us learn from our mistakes, move on to new and wonderful times in our lives and move our focus away from destructive thoughts. Yes, I had it read it several times to allow it to sink in.
Let’s think about that again - being depressed can help us move our focus away from destructive thoughts or actions, they said. Something just doesn’t add up there, does it? Now I’ve spoken before very openly about my experiences with depression. And yes, in some ways experiencing depression has helped me make some positive changes in my life. I was able to write a book loosely based on my experiences of the illness after the birth of my son and it did quite well for me.
That put me in the priviledged position of being able to reach out to people going through similar experiences and assure them they were not alone. But I was only able to do that after receiving the relevant treatment and support, I’ve no shame in admitting that there have been times in my life when a wee dose of Prozac has done the business or that I have a shelf full of self help manuals and books to help me understand and tackle the condition.
But would I say that being depressed is a good thing - even though in a way it has brought me a degree of success? Would I say that it helped me move my focus away from destructive thoughts and actions? No. Categorically and emphatically no. What utter, utter rubbish.
It is clear to me (and I’m no overpaid boffin at New York University) that anyone who could make such a statement - never mind commission an entire report to argue their point - has clearly never experienced depression. Yes, they may have been sad from time to time. They may even have gone through a severe rough patch and yes, I agree that perhaps we are all too keen sometimes to medicate away general sadness.
Sadness is a fact of life. Bad things happen and we all need a time to grieve over them and come to terms with them. But there is a huge difference to feeling sad (even if at times that sadness seems overwhelming) and suffering from depression. From my experience depression is all encompassing. It invades every aspect of your life until you can no longer think rationally or feel any inkling of positive emotion. It steals your confidence, your sense of self and it certainly steals your ability to look to the future with hope or excitement. It is very different from having a bad day day or reacting to dreadful circumstances in your life (and that’s not to dismiss any notion that a real, clinicial depression can come about as a result of difficult times).
For a lot of people depression is an illness - a deficiency of the happy hormone Serotonin - a condition which needs treatment above and beyond being told to pull yourself together. It is a condition that, at its worst, can be life threatening. And it is certainly not the reserve of the great minds of this world. (The over paid boffins, just so as you know, pointed out a number of great leaders or figures in history who were afflicted and went on to do just fabulously for themselves.) It doesn’t care who you are, what you have or whether or not you should be happy on paper.
It is one of the biggest misconceptions out there that depression only happens to people who have bad things happen to them. The fact is that true clinical depression - the depletion of serotonin - doesn’t give a flying fig what you have or what you have achieved or hope to achieve.
I’m pretty sure there are people who swing the lead and I’m pretty sure there are medical professionals out there who hand out magic prescriptions a little more readily than is justified. I know there are people who use depression as an excuse - a label which they are happy to wear. But for every person swinging the lead there are countless others battling against a genuine illness and getting on with their lives in difficult circumstances. Our GPs and other medical professionals are doing the best they can to help the people who need it, in the difficult position of having been allocated just 10 minutes per appointment.
I think it is wrong, and also verging on the dangerous, to suggest that those who suffer from true depression let it wash over them and avoid trying to treat it. If you are lucky - as I was and am - it can be treated and controlled fairly easily.
You can get your sense of self back and you can feel well again and it is often only when you start to feel well again that you realise just how unwell you had been. That realisation can often be a scary experience. Far from helping us achieve great things, escape the stresses of life and not repeat past mistakes - avoiding help when it is truly needed could cause untold damage. That damage extends not only to those personally afflicted with the condition but their friends and family also.
So when overpaid boffins analyse their statistics and come up with their grand and sweeping statements they would do well to think about the real human impact of an illness which deserves as much treatment, sympathy and understanding as any other life threatening condition.

She LOVES it... hurrah!

I nervously sent the first 13000 words of book 4 (ironically called 'Ever After' as it is taking forever to write..) to my agent last night.
I am suffering such a crisis of confidence at the moment (hormones) that I struggle to write a sentence without seeking the approval of those around me. I am, officially, a little demented and difficult to live with these days.
Anyway thus began the morning process of sitting, watching my email inbox, pretending not to care - writing my column as if I had not a worry in the world - while all the time noticing my finger nails were getting shorter and a faint taste of chewed down fingernails lingered in my mouth...
I got an email, mid morning. And she LOVES it. Now I put the LOVE in caps because she put the LOVE in caps and LOVE in caps make me happy.
No to go all Sally Field on y'all but yay - she LOVES it, she really, really LOVES it.

Baby Watch - 6 weeks and 6 days left

Of course, she could come early. Or late. Or on time.

But here is the stomach - huge! Hard to believe someone told me just three days ago they didn't realise I was pregnant. If my stomach was normally this size, I would be seriously worried.

Anyway - I saw my consultant today and everything is just hunky dory. Baby is facing the appropriate exit - is well down and ready for action and weighing a perfectly average 4.5lbs or thereabouts at the moment.

Seems a bit mad to think that she is so near to being here.

And yet I'm utterly freaked out at the thought of pushing a 7.5lb/ 8lbs (the current estimate for her weight) baby out of my fandango.

It's a blue Monday

So, it's officially the most depressing day of the year.. and I can't argue with that but to cheer you up I've decided to post this doctored picture of my very cute nephew and godson, Ethan - who is four and a half months old and has - in the last week- actually decided to grace me with very gorgeous smiles.


Anyway - this is my sister's attempt to prove her son looks like his daddy...


He does, in fact, actually look like this...

He's a gorgeous, funny little ray of sunshine who has brought us all so much joy - even if he does have the uncanny ability to look at you as if you are from another planet.

In other good news my friend Nora gave birth this morning to a gorgeous baby girl- no name released yet - but mammy and baby are doing well.

So Blue Monday - stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Random Conversations with the Boy - continued

J: "Mummy, I wish I was 100 already."
M: "Why's that?"
J: "Because then I would get a message from the Queen."


I've no idea where that came from.

For Mimi - here's what a cellular blanket looks like...

I don't know why these blankets are held in such high esteem but you can't look at a "What you need for your baby" list here without a mention of them.

Thing is they tend to be quite starchy and not all that comfortable from my experience.

I've only got a couple this time - for the pram and crib. Obviously a baby would look a little daft stuck in a sleeping bag in her pram.

And yes I do have swaddle wraps too (donated by my sister) so I'll be giving them a go.

And to further answer Mimi's questions - yes round here the majority of our ante-natal care is carried out by midwives and it will be a midwife who will deliver the baby unless there are complications. I do have a consultant who oversees my care - but I've yet to actually meet him and I only saw him once during my pregnancy with the boy. I don't mind, to be honest, I feel much more comfortable with a woman looking at my nethers than a man (even though I know he has seen it all 100 times before - not my nethers, obviously).

Well today my little pregnancy ticker doodah says 50 days to go. Am having a feeling it won't be that long (wishful thinking, perhaps) but as I have morphed into a horrendously over emotional waddling weeble in the last few days I can but live in hope.

In non-pregnancy related news I learned last night that Feels Like Maybe will be released in paperback on May 28.

So post baby, I have approximately 10 weeks to get myself looking decent enough to meet my public and do the publicity trail. Not sure how I'm going to manage leaving a 10 week old for publicity - watch this space.

I knew there was a benefit to my talking about the sick...

... all the time.
I received an email this morning from a journalist doing a piece on Hyperemesis who asked me to contribute after reading about my experiences on this blog.

Every little bit of publicity helps in the book trade - even if it does involve you revealing your embarrassing sick stories.

Recipe for relaxation

I'm tired tonight - it's been one of those days when I've not had a moment of not feeling tired. Woke stupidly early and couldn't get back to sleep because I knew I had to be at the Midwife early and had to shower etc beforehand.
Saw the midwife (after very narrowly avoiding crashing my car in a dodgy reverse park incident) and baby is just fine. Midwife was a little odd with me though - although that could be down to my general state of paranoia of late. Wee had some protein in, so it's been sent off for testing but good news is baby is no longer breach and it has been her head bouncing off my pelvic bone which has been making me so damn uncomfortable all week.
Left the midwife and went to pick up a parcel of baby clothes from the Post Office which a lovely online friend had sent me - then waddled over to the local pram shop to buy a new crib mattress and a mirror for our car so that I'll be able to see the baby when I'm driving.
Then it was up to the Early Learning Centre with Joseph so he could spend the gift voucher his granny got him for Christmas. We stopped off in a cafe for a drink and a slice of carrot cake after and I felt distinctly happy.
Then Joseph managed to morph in the grumpiest child in the world, I morphed into the grumpiest mammy ever and by the time we got home at lunch time my darling husband got it both barrels. (Esp when he nearly had a stroke thinking I'd bought all the packaged baby clothes new...)
I lay down for an hour (I do love my husband, honest... he puts up with a lot) and then went to pick my older sister up from work and then we went to get some cellular blankets for the baby. I've no idea why cellular blankets are so important but I felt as if I would be committing some big parenting sin by not having any. So thanks to the house of value that is Matalan, I'm now stocked up.
We then visited my other sister and my baby nephew - who is exceptionally very cute but all exceptionally very bokey. Me and him are a match made in heaven.
By that stage I had promised Joseph we would rent a DVD and go home for cuddle on the sofa - but my temper was not fit for trying to park in the supermarket car park beside the DVD shop. And when Joseph insisted on not listening, or indeed doing the exact opposite of what I wanted I kind of lost the run of myself.
I was standing at one end of the DVD shop, him at the other calling "Mummy!" but each time I answered he would forget what he wanted to say. At the same time a (I can only assume equally harassed) mother tutted in my direction that she couldn't concentrate with all the noise and stomped off (and I prided myself very much in not spearing her with a stray DVD case as she went...)
Then (and God only knows why) we decided to go into Tesco to get some treats to eat while we watched our DVD. Big. Mistake. Huge.
We'll not talk about it but by the time we left I'm sure I was known as the biggest screaming harpee in Derry.
Got home, plonked the boy in front of a DVD - me being too wound up for family viewing - and I set about the housework.

But I'm all set now - once the boy is in bed I have a copy of "27 Dresses" to watch. I have a bottle of Caffeine Free Diet Coke chilling (I know... I live on the edge) and I have a box of Pringles and a tub of cheesy dip. If I can manage to stay awake it might just be a nice evening. And, when it is all done, and thanks to my cleaning frenzy, I can slip between some fresh bed linen for a decent sleep.

Lunchtime blog - cravings and other wonders

I haven't really had any cravings with this pregnancy up until now. There was a night I took a mad notion for a beef stroganoff and would not be satisfied until I had one but it was a one off and I'm not sure one offs count as actual cravings.
But recently I've had two strange ones. The first is cheese and chive dip - the kind you buy in wee pots in the supermarket and can dip breadsticks or crudites in. (But who are we kidding folks, it is nicest served with a big old pile of "once you pop, you can't stop" Pringles). I spotted a tub on the supermarket shelf just before Christmas and since then no sour cream and chive crisp has been safe in my sights. It's a strange addiction - especially as I can't wash it down with the traditional glass (or three) of finest new world Sauvignon Blanc.
The second craving is cornettos - which do kind of nauseate me to a great extent - and yet I am powerless to their call. I even (and I do feel a total pig for admitting it) ate two in one night recently... just after the other. I should have stopped, I regretted immediately... but it was as if a force outside of my body, mind and mental reasoning just took over and there I was... up to my neck in chocolate and ice cream.

Okay so neither are going to win any healthy eating awards - but after seven months of constant being sick (you see, I mentioned the sick again...) I figure I deserve a little treat now and then (and again.... and again....)

oooh, lunchtime blog - remembered what I was originally going to blog about...

So I'm writing my fourth book (and yes, I'm actually writing it and not just writing about writing it) and I have a character issue. In the book there is a man and he's, well, a little bit hairy. In fact he's a whole lot hairy. He is a walking carpet - a wookie like creature from Donegal who manages to make my MC lose run of her senses. And she refers to him as Chewbacca.

Now this has sparked a debate (mostly in my own head, I hasten to add) about my ability to use the name Chewbacca without contravening copyright law. Obviously he's not actually a wookie (although, you know, he does have a hairy back and all). It would annoy me more than words can say to take the reference out - so I'm actually going to have to do some proper research on this one. Bum!

Oh, and just so as you know, the character is very loosely based on my friend's obsession with Anton DuBeke of Strictly Come Dancing who is very, very hairy.

Lunchtime blog - the big ouchee

I think I'm having labour pains for Keris.
Obviously my own little one is nowhere nearly near cooked and ready to come out but all morning I've been ouchee as feck. What I wouldn't give for a couple of nurofen and a glass of wine.
What I think will happen is that I will continue being ouchee until Keris sneezes and has her baby painlessly.

Keris, for the uninitiated, is a writer friend who is ridiculously talented and also very overly pregnant (8 days overdue and counting). She's been updating her blog twice daily with tales of her overdueness but no sign of baby Joe yet.
This reminds me all of when I was pregnant with the boy and my colleague and friend in work was due some 17 days before me. She also went overdue and being expectant and hormonal I felt as if in a way I was overdue with her and waited day in and day out for news of her baby's arrival. In the end her lovely little Amy arrived 9 days late and seven days before Joseph made his arrival (one day early).
What I will say is that I'm no good at waiting - not one bit - so I'm hoping (for my sake as much as Keris') that her baby arrives soon. And that mine arrives at least on time - but despite the big ouchee - not today.

Random conversations with the boy... continued

So this morning I'm doing my early morning routine of heaving and being sick (honestly, I know I talk about the sick a lot... promise I'll stop in about 7.5 weeks...)
Joseph was beside me. Now I should emphasise that Joseph loves the show Ben 10 and frequently goes into character - American accent and all.
So while I'm being sick (and it was one of those ones where you make strange inhuman noises...) he turns to me, in best American accent and says

"Mom. This would be so cool if it wasn't so uncool".

It at least put a smile on my face.

Lunchtime Blog - things to try not to do in work

Without saying too much about the circumstances of the why and wherefore I cried today in work.
In front of the big boss.
Like a big eejit.
I seem to be crying a lot at the minute - damn hormones - but generally I reserve it for alone time (the car, over the ironing board, when I go to bed). Some times they are happy tears - I'm so utterly, utterly in love with my son it overwhelms me. I'm so proud of my hubby it amazes me. And I'm so blessed to be getting a gorgeous baby girl that it sometimes spills over into snottery sobs. (Of course, she might not be gorgeous. She might be icky. Joseph is seriously worried about the fact she might have some blood on her when she is born - something I'm not prepared for myself as Joseph was clean as a whistle when he arrived. My claim to fame - a hygienically clean uterus and cervix....)
Other times the weight of the world feels as if it sat on my shoulders (right beside the wee devil who tells me to eat chocolate even though it is guaranteed to make me feel horrendously sick. I don't need to mention what is happening with the economy in any great detail to know it is taking it's toll on all of us.
I'm also very, very scared of labour and delivery even though I know I've done it (and survived it) before. Note to self - must stop reading Take a Break magazine and tales of women conking it in childbirth, or worse, their babies conking it. NOT GOOD for my mental health).

And then there are times when I just need a good cry. I just wish those times didn't come in the middle of a meeting with my bosses.

As Aoife would say in 'Feels Like Maybe' - when they write the story of my life that episode will be filed under "Not Her Finest Moment".

Lunchtime blog - eight weeks and counting

It's just eight weeks til this baby is due.
I'm hoping for an early(ish) arrival. I mean I don't want her here now, I want her here when she is safe. Maybe at 38 weeks or 39... just NOT late. I could not handle late. (You just know she is soooooo going to be late, don't you?)
It's not that I'm particularly fed up of being pregnant. It's more that I'm fed up of carrying out a huge tummy, that moves, and kicks and stretches all the time, making me want to swear. And I'm so over the being sick. Had enough. Been sick for 30 weeks now. Surely that is enough sick for anyone's lifetime. And that's not mentioning the back ache and the heart burn.
Of course it's lovely to think that inside me a little miracle is growing and I am grateful for that - honestly I am. I just wish I did it with more grace.
I came to work today to discover both A: Sick on my top due to a last minute before leaving the house surprise vomit. (Yes, this pregnancy brings lots of feeling just dandy one minute, heaving into the loo the next surprises) and B: streaked make up due to my eyes watering during the surprise sick. When I checked in the bathroom mirror before leaving the house (already late for work as obviously I had not factored in the 10 minutes required for the surprise vomit session) it looked okay. When I arrived at work, it was a different matter. I've tried blending - I don't think it worked.
So I look (and fear I smell) just fecking rough. And still I'm supposed to have a smile on my face.

Well in some ways I do. I heard today that my gorgeously lovely best friend Vicki (who lives in Scotland and may or may not have a touch of the 'Daisy' about her) has booked to come and see me and madam mid March. In 10 weeks. JUST ten weeks. I cried happy tears.

Also I wrote last night, about 600 words building on the success of the previous night. I now hope to be back on track. But all the while aware than in 8 weeks time there will be a very big distraction to my writing. Eep!

By jove I think she's got it...

I've done.
I've written some fiction.
1000 words of the stuff.
And read off the rest of the WIP (that's Work In Progress) and it's not the sack of shite I was fearing it to be.
In fact it's quite good.
And I enjoyed the writing. And I found it flowed nicely.
So the seal has been broken and the writer is back. Hurrah and hurrah. I'm not broken any more.

Smile for the Camera

The boy and I were having our usual pre-bedtime chat on Monday when we heard a familiar voice sound out from the TV in the other room.
Like the big wain that I am I bolted out of my seat (definitely not easy given my current condition) and rushed like a buck eejit to the living room where on the screen I saw my daddy chatting nine to the dozen about my grandad’s old home movies.
It was part of the ‘Super Eight’ series made for the BBC a few years ago, and while we had seen it before it was lovely to see it again. There was my father, and my uncle, recalling a childhood of innocence and happiness - and at the same time recalling some of Derry’s darkest days - all to the backdrop of my grandfather’s first hand movie footage of it all.
My grandad died when I was 16 - I’m now just reaching the stage of my life where he has been out of my life longer than he was in it. But yet my memories of him are as strong now as they ever were - and most of that I imagine is down to the legacy of home movies and photographs he left us.
Of course it was long before the days of camcorders and digital photography. Grandad had an old cinefilm camera which would film just a few minutes of silent footage at a time on film reels which would then be played back to us through a projector onto the living room wall or an old bed sheet.
On occasion my daddy would borrow the camera for big family days out so we created our very own archive of classic family movies. (We were very overdramatic and there are several hilarious reels of us acting like eejits in various locations around the city - from Brooke Park to the City Walls).
Everything was filmed - from Christmas mornings to First Communions and family weddings. My father - just like his daddy before him - has also kept a keen record of the changing face of Derry. He has more photographs of Gwynn’s Institute and St. Eugene’s Cathedral than is strictly necessary and I’ve sometimes wondered at the logic of photographs of ramshackle buildings he has taken - but when I think back to just how much this city has transformed over the years I can see how important it is. Perhaps I’m just getting old and sentimental about such things.
Last summer my father spent his holidays scanning in all our old photographs into his computer before giving us a disc with our own copies. There were more than 3000 images - ranging from his own childhood, through to ours and on to his own grandchildren. Yes, there were plenty of seriously dodgy haircuts (80s perm-tastic on my behalf) and even dodgier clothes. There were shots of all sorts of weird and wonderful things from school shows to my then newborn son being cuddled by his doting granny. Of course there were people who are no longer with us - like my grandad - frozen in time with a smile that is unforgettable even without the aid of a photograph. And there are events and celebrations that you only think you’ve forgotten until you see that image of yourself dancing to YMCA with a pair of fairy wings on. Then again, there are some things perhaps which are better forgotten.
At a time when it seems like everyone has a camcorder, or a digital camera that can take short movies or even a fancy dan mobile phone with the same facilities - I think it can be hard to appreciate just how important these old family archives are.
I know I take for granted the fact that I can capture a snap on my mobile, upload to my computer and email it around the world in the space of five minutes.
I’ve even become kind of blase about such things - taking the recording of my son’s life so far a little bit for granted. I’m not at all disciplined when it comes to actually getting photos printed out or arranging for video footage to be transferred from the camera to a DVD or similar.
But when I think about it I’m only depriving my son, and his children in days to come, of the rich heritage I have. Joseph was most impressed to see his “very own grandad” on the telly on Monday night and even more impressed to see his ‘Granda Ernie’ (my own grandfather) and be told how he named after his Granda Ernie’s middle name. He asked, in sincerity, did that make him famous?
So while I might cringe at the fashion faux pas of my youth (knowing full well I’m still making a health dose of them now) and yes it can be painful to watch how my waistline has expanded over the years (and shrunk a bit, and grown a bit, and shrunk a bit etc..) but I’m still glad - and eternally grateful to my daddy and grandad - that they have created this most valuable resource for us all. And to this end, I promise, to finally get some of those photographs currently eating up the memory on my home computer printed out.

Don't mention the war.... or the book

Okay so I'm supposed to update on my writing progress today...
Supposed to, being the key words.
So anyway - did you see Relocation, Relocation, Relocation last night? I just caught a little of it - but how high maintenance was yer woman?
And isn't Phil thingummy just lovely. I wish he was my husband.
Loads of Braxton Hicks last night - and bizarre dreams about living in my old rented house.
I seem to be dreaming about houses past a lot recently - wonder what that means? Searching for a more secure time in my past perhaps?
In recent weeks I've dreamed of my old student digs (aka The Brown house - the carpets were brown, the curtains brown, the woodwork brown, the furniture brown etc). It was a lovely - if exceptionally basic and very cold house which we were pretty sure was haunted, but they were really, insanely happy days. There was friendship, song, drink and more drink, dancing and more dancing and a bit of studying.
And then I dreamt of my grandparents house - most notably their back garden - the scene of many a happy childhood adventure. Yes, so the dream was weird in that suddenly their garden morphed into the City Walls here in Derry... but it was a lovely dream all the same.
And then last night I dreamt we were back living in the house we (meaning me, my sister and my then fiance) rented when I first started working in the Derry Journal. It was a lovely house - with a very steep driveway - and we were poor but happy.
All definitions welcome...
And as for the book... well.... erm.... I'll chat tomorrow.

Getting blocked...

Where I'm from getting blocked has a certain meaning - generally it means going out and consuming a fairly vast amount of alcohol so that you end up in a nicely inebriated state and generally it involves dancing like a complete eejit in a public place.
Or at least that is what it used to mean.
Now it means - for me at least - the inability to write. My fourth book (working title 'Ever After') has stalled at a measly 12,000 words. Now I do have several very good excuses but as each night passes with me staring at a laptop willing the lovely Annie (my MC) into life I get more and more frustrated.
Now, generally when I hit the wall I pour a nice, cold glass of wine - consume it at record speed and find that magically the block lifts. Sure what I write that evening might be a load of carbolics but the effect of actually being able to write something is enough to spur me on to write something more legible and coherent the following evening.
Of course at the moment I don't have the luxury of a bottle of wine at my side. I do however have a variety of prescription medications each and every one of them complete with the warning that they may cause drowsiness.
"If affected do not attempt to drive or operate heavy machinery" they warn - but I think they are missing the crucial adendum "or attempt to write chick lit".

Tonight will be the third night in a row that I'll switch on my laptop, open the file and promise myself to write a little more. It's at quite interesting juncture in the book so in theory is should be easy. In theory.
I promise to report back tomorrow - wish me luck.

Did you see what they did there?

Several of my friends and writing associates from the lovely Write Words (where sadly I've not been very active lately due to ongoing vomiting etc) have set up a blog to talk about their writing experiences.
These are all talented writers and their take on the world is well worth five minutes of anyone's time.
So feel free to drop by at Strictly Writing!

Be prepared

So now I'm on a countdown. It's nine weeks today til my baby is due and while nine weeks is a long time (esp with the sickness and the increasing heartburn) it's not really all that long now, is it?
I mean, conceivably, this time nine weeks I could be holding a precious baby girl in my arms and dreading going for a pee in case it stings. Scary thoughts indeed.
The last few days I've had really strong braxton hicks contractions which have been a taster of what will come. I have freaked a few people out who I swear have thought I'm about to pop but I know as a second timer these contractions might be a little ouchy but they are nothing compared to the real deal. The real deal makes me swear. These just make me say "oweee" a couple of times.
Nonetheless the arrival of the braxton hicks (or branston pickles as I prefer to call them) have made me realise that I'm not all that prepared - or at least I wasn't until I went into a one woman shopping spree in Matalan, Babies R Us and Tesco at the weekend.
I have my oversized nighty for labour and the big pants for recovery afterwards (can't be coping with disposable knickers) and enough maternity towels to build a small tower. Nappies are bought, as are vests and a coat for the baby (pink, of course) and tonight I packed a hospital bag of sorts.
So I'm nearly there. If only they'd let me smuggle in a bottle of vodka to cope with the pain I'd be flying.

A surreal day in work

I was working yesterday, New Year's Day, and to be honest it wasn't a prospect I totally relished. While the rest of the world seemed to be recovering from a hangover there were a select band of us fearless journos putting together a paper for the good people of Derry.
The day started off as quiet as we feared - but then it was set to take a turn for the bizarrely surreal - and the utterly uplifting.
Just after lunchtime two of 'The Priests' - a singing trio taking the music world by storm dropped into the office for an interview with one of my colleagues.
We (and by we, I do mean one of my other colleagues who does not take no for an answer) managed to persuade them to sing for us and they did - treating us to a verse and chorus of 'Oh Holy Night' - a hymn which brings a tear to my eye at the best of the times.
It was awe inspiring, uplifting and there was a completely different atmosphere in the office when they left.
Of course I didn't film the actual performance - but I found this on You Tube so you can see for yourself how wonderful our day was.



Once that was over and done with I had a call replying to to a query I had put in the day before regarding rumours that Strictly Come Dancing's Vincent Simone was visiting Derry and staying at a local posh hotel.
Within five minutes I ended up on the phone to him, asking him what he thought of our fine city and listening to him call me Bella.
I was, it has to be said, a little star struck and left work wondering what on earth had just happened.
Random but wonderful - you can't beat the world of local journalism.

Mondo Beyondo...

Stolen from Keris, who stole it from Superhero Designs... here is a novel way to greet the new year and say goodbye to the old... I kind of like it.

1. What do you want to acknowledge yourself for in regard to 2008? (What did you create? What challenges did you face with courage and strength? What promises did you keep to yourself? What brave choices did you make? What are you proud of?)

This has been, very openly, a mixed year. But acknowledging the positive is really important - I made it to number 2 in the Irish bestseller list with Rainy Days and Tuesdays and number 6 with Feels Like Maybe. Both exceeded my expectations. I finished writing the most challenging book of my career to date 'Jumping in Puddles' and have thus far survived a threatened miscarriage, hyperemesis and a dose of antenatal depression. I'm here - and I'm smiling some of the time - that's good. I lost a good dose of weight - before getting pregnant, putting it on again and then losing it again through the hyperemesis and I am proud that despite it all I'm here and doing the best I can.

2. What is there to grieve about 2008? (What was disappointing? What was scary? What was hard? What can you forgive yourself for?)
I grieve for the sense of security - emotional and financial that I once had. It has been a scary year with my husband starting his own business. And pregnancy has been hard - very hard. But I forgive myself for having negative thoughts about it because, as Oprah would say "I did the best I could with what I had at the time".

3. What else do you need to say about the year to declare it complete?
It's somewhere between Good Riddance and Thank You.

Okay, the next step is to say out loud, "I declare 2008 complete!" How do you feel? If you don't feel quite right, there might be one more thing to say...

The final step is to consider your primary focus for the year to come. What is your primary intention or theme for 2009? Is it the year of joy? The year of self-care? The year of partnership? Stand up and say it proud, "2008 is my year of...."
CONTENTMENT!