Making preparations

The summer fizzled out and my tummy ripened like an apple waiting to drop. Still, with two months to go, I’m entering the unwieldy stage. My cycle to work finally feels too onerous, so from next week I’m reluctantly swapping to the tube; starting my masters in writing at Goldsmiths at the end of the month feels rather more foolhardy. I’m frantically putting in place support and back up support to see me through the early days. Revisiting Gina Ford makes me realise how precious my time is now, and I get frustrated by how much of it is wasted at work when there’s so much to be done before my little one arrives.

I am reconciled then. The baby has a gender and a name, though middle names are still up for grabs. It has a bedroom complete with bunting and a mobile; Tom re- mantled Ikea draws and I filled them with bleached and starched linens. Under-cot baskets have nappies- real and, well, ready-made. I’ll not be a martyr to anything this time. This baby will have to share me with the grown up self I’ve turned into- busy, lazy: occasionally stressed) but I doubt it’ll do too much harm.

So moving is on hold- a fact Jonah’s delighted about given his staunch resistance to the idea. He may have others when he realises how much noise a baby can make in our well used space; but the stork’s bringing silencing headphones apiece, and has planted ear plugs in every room, knowing how sleep is the key to everyone’s moods- especially mine.

So I’m enjoying it while it lasts. Lazy holidays and Sundays, where 9 am was a luxury I’ve not seen for years, though now I’m back at work, I still struggle to sleep in past 6. There’s too much to do- we’ve cleared out old things, put our affairs in order, and generally started making space for another life in our lives. It’ll be tight, but we’ll manage it and while we eek out space and love, I’m carving out a little room for myself- an indulgence maybe, to study at my age, especially when, these days, academia feels a highways to nowhere. But I need stimulation beyond nap schedules and fulfilment beyond feeds.

Support, while it’s often thin on the ground from relatives, employers and even friends, can at least be paid for, if we can find the right person for the job. Our savings have finally paid dividends and we’re planning whether we can get a new car and a trip to visit my mother in Florida (she’s protesting poverty about coming here in the depths of winter, and I don’t entirely blame her) to brighten what’s shaping up to be a gloomy February of feeds and changes and coffee mornings with other baby-shocked women. At least we can afford to have options, though finances are my biggest fear, when stat mat kicks in and I have to start making my meagre income stretch, while shelling out on hardcore childcare begins in earnest after the summer hols.

It’s churlish perhaps to tot up the costs of a child before you’ve had a chance to bond, but it’s the reality. They don’t come cheap and I’m not sentimental enough to forget it. But cost notwithstanding, I am suddenly delighting in little shoes, and freshly laundered cardies; I’m putting in some gentle efforts on yoga and whispering ’round and round the garden’ on my rounded stomach, to introduce a voice too often silenced by screens and silent reading.

Ava is putting in the staunchest effort of support (though Tom seems to have forgotten he was ever against it), gracefully accepting the encroaching pastelisation of a room that had been growing more monochrome with every passing year. In some ways, I think she will benefit the most from a funny little nuisance to come and drag her out of her shell and force her to engage with the real world. Like many on the spectrum, Ava is young but also old for her age. But though she may be wise on matters of interest- nature; dogs; cats- she’s only really just learned to play. Getting the toys out the loft has reignited an interest in things that once baffled her- dolls’ pushchairs; tambourines, kaleidoscopes. But, stocking back up on plastic crap (we hit the Lidl baby special weekend HARD- and bought one of the nicest maternity dresses I’ve allowed myself this time around for £7.99, among nappies, wipes, and one or two cheap toys) feels regressive. But like giving too much of myself, I won’t be suckered into the accumulation of soul sucking stuff this time, that my organisational impetus spends more time packing away than enjoying; my generosity comes with a note of caution.

Yes, this child will be loved. But on my terms. In my way. A way that keeps part of me for myself. A way that keeps me sane.