The end is in sight.  Or so I'm told.  Although many places still cite 37+0 onwards as term, many specialists are now saying that needs redefining and that true term isn't until at least 39 weeks.

I've never spontaneously gone into labour, it's always followed a sweep.  My waters have never broken on their own, they've always been broken in labour by a Midwife.  The only time i've ever given birth before my due date was with The Preschooler at 39+4 after a sweep the day before due to BP and pain.

Yet despite all that, you start to feel like a ticking time bomb at this stage.

Rationally you know you have several weeks yet.  You know from your own history that the chances of anything happening a)early or b) spontaneously are minuscule.  Yet your mind still plays that dastardly game of 'what if's' because no matter how small the chance is it's still there.  You live in a spasm of hope and of fear that things will start.  You brick yourself at the thought it could happen then scowl in misery when another day goes by without so much as a twinge.

I want her to have as long as she needs.

But I've had enough.

I know all woman say that at this stage but I have genuinely had enough.

I spend most of my time at home on the birthing ball or in bed because of the pain.  I only really leave the house once a week.  It's been like this for months.  Pelvic pain.  Hip pain. Back pain. Sciatica.  Pain. Pain. Pain.  It hurts to sit, it hurts to stand, it hurts to walk.  Turning over in bed feels like my body is breaking into pieces.

It doesn't stop there.  Then there's the Insomnia, i'm averaging around 4 hours sleep a night.  Not good for anyone, especially for a pregnant woman.  Throw into the mix that the person also has M.E.

My emotions and thoughts are unpredictable and unreigned due to my depression and anxiety and lack of medication whilst pregnant.  I swing from harrowing black holes of moods to number grey and the occasional break in the clouds.

Then there's the headaches.  I have had headaches for the past 12 days.  Constant in the background headaches that dull with paracetamol yet never disappear.  Every few hours they'll flare and the right side of my head and behind my right eye will throb vehemently.  Having avoided analgesics for the other pains I'm having to take paracetamol every 4-6 hours daily and it still doesn't cure the headaches.  My GP said I could have codeine but we agreed it would be best not to as it can slow baby's movements and seeing as I have anxiety and panic issues and an anterior placenta this would probably tip me over the edge.

My blood pressure did rise, but then lowered again.  My GP doesn't think the headaches are pre-eclampsia yet does however think they'll unfortunately have permanent residence with me until I give birth.

I'm officially useless.  I can hardly do anything with the kids.  I'm miserable.  The Husband is having to do everything.  I'm missing out on the trips to the park, Thing One's first trip to Blackpool Pleasure Beach, The Preschooler's first trip bowling.

In 14 years I think The Husband has seen me cry a handful of times, if that.  Yet two of those have been in the past month or so.  I'm finding it incredibly difficult to cope; to exist.

I feel cheated out of cherishing this final pregnancy.  I can't enjoy it.  I know i'm lucky and blessed.  I do appreciate being pregnant.  I don't even possess the words to describe how much it means to me to be having a fourth baby after being told by The Husband that it would never be.  She had other ideas though.  our little surprise.  She obviously wouldn't take no for an answer.

I know the end is in sight,  but the thought of several more weeks of this is overwhelming.

I'm taking EPO as with my other pregnancies, I'm convinced this is what ensured the success of my previous sweeps.  My Midwife has agreed to attempt an early sweep at 39+5 and that was before the headaches.  I'm torn between breaking down into pieces and begging for one now but a) I know she'd say no b) as horrific as I feel, I wouldn't be comfortable trying to 'make' her come this early as if she was ready I'd be in labour, though technically, a sweep would only work if she was ready anyway.  (EPO and RLT prep you for labour but will not trigger it hence why despite popular misunderstood belief neither are natural induction techniques)

I have an inkling she's back to back just like The Preschooler was, nobody realised until he was sliding out.  Sure as hell explained the intensity of labour though,

Still have things to do, I still go to bed and wake up with The Preschooler next to me.  Not looking forwards to evicting him but I need the bedside cot as it provides extra room for co-sleeping.  I think it will be harder for me than for him.  He's terribly enamored with his Sonic The Hedgehog bedding for his big boy bed.

Tick.

Tock.

These final weeks are so precious.

I just wish I could cherish them.

I'll miss pregnancy when it's over.  It's impossible to describe the magic of it.  The feeling of being connected.  Feeling her grow and move.

Tick.

Tock.

Panic Room.

The problem with anxiety is it's irrationality, at times.  You worry about things that have happened and about things that haven't.  You worry about things that are happening and things that aren't.  You worry about things that might happen, or will happen, or won't ever happen or even are happening. It's the past.  The present.  The future. It's little things.  It's insignificant things. It's petty things. It's big things.  It's about you.  About them.  About nobody.  And you can't make it stop.  Ever.  It doesn't matter that the things don't matter because the anxiety ties them into knots until they do. Matter. Until they matter too much.  Until it's all that matters.  You can't stop thinking (and thinking and thinking and thinking) you can't make it shut up or go away.  You can't sleep.  You can't concentrate.  Your brain is riddled with these writhing anxieties until it's crippled and stuttering.  They're snowballing. The worry turns into panic.  You're forgetting to breath. It's like an approaching Apocalypse and you can't run or hide.  It's a film of car crashes that you can't pause, happening before your eyes.  It's the frantic birds with razorblade wings trying to escape.  Trapped in your chest.  Trapped in your head. You can't close your eyes to it.  It's inside you.  You can't get off this ride.  You try to talk about it but it all sounds so silly and your words are ineffective.  They reassure you that it's pointless and you're worrying over nothing.  That it's silly.  That it'll never happen.  That so what if it had happened. They tell you just to stop thinking about it.  To stop worrying about it.  That's the problem though.  That's what they don't get.  You can't.  Stop. You can't make it stop.  Don't they think you would if you could?  That's just it though.  You can't control it.  It controls you.

Hell: Soft Play

Something Dark & Evil lurks within.....

Due to various mental issues, yes this girl has issues, it's rare that i leave the house on my own let alone avec l'enfants.  So imagine the grand masochistic mood I must have been in when last week, whilst The Husband was away, I decided to afflict the torturous idea of going to soft play.  If there is a hell on earth, it looks like soft play.

Granted it took several hours for me to fortify the little mental reserve I possess to leave the house then once at the cash machine, the urge to return home was overwhelming.

Once the game was up and The Spawn realised where we were headed there really was no turning back, resistance would have been futile not to mention bloody noisy.

Now before you all go accusing me of being a judgmental old cow, I'll do two things.  First, i'll agree.  We all judge people be it internally via our sardonic little internal narrators or externally through a bloody big gob.   Secondly, i'll judge myself first.  Yes, I was the nervous weirdo who looked like i'd a) escaped from a mental ward b) like I was insanely and indescribably  uncomfortable.  I was the woman who met nobodies gaze and picked out a table at the edge with my back to all other tables and the play frame in front of me.  I'm the weirdo who looked like she could vomit up a pharmacy worth of Zoloft at any given moment and gouge out her own eyeballs with a ball, from the ball pool.  I was the woman with no partner nor friends.  I was the woman who's lifeline was her phone and her crochet, yes I took my fucking crochet with me.  For distraction.  I was the woman who's heart was going like the clappers and was chewing her inner cheeks to shreds.

So now that's out of the way, there's everyone else.

The place appeared to be soley run by teenagers, all of which still looked terrifically hung over from the night before or perhaps even that morning.  Lucky Bastards.

Glancing around the general female population appeared to have more makeup than actual face who's primary reason for being there appeared to be soley to posture and pose.  Duck lips a-go-go I felt like I was trapped in some vile alternate reality of the bogs and expected them to take selfies every few seconds.

Dads were few and far between taking a similar escape route as mine yet choosing to hide at the very back of the venue, with laptops.  Genius!.  The kids will never find them there!

The place was packed, ridiculously packed with at least one party going on.  This however didn't deter some of the parents allowing babies to crawl through the large play frame area.  I mean really?  There's a baby area for them, the place is literally exploding with sweaty little beasts running rampant and they put babies in their paths?  Needless to say it wouldn't possibly be their fault if the poor little sods got trampled on.

Then there's the 'children' who look like they should be at work, breaking all the rules, squishing the smalls as they cause absolute havoc taking over the place.

You get the parents who appear to forget that they have to actually parent as their little darlings push, shove and force their way through the play frames and then decide to take over the baby and toddler area too which they are clearly too large to be in.  As a parent it's your job to accept the rules of the place and bloody well ensure your little gits are abiding by them.  Other people shouldn't have to tell your children to get out of the baby area.  If your cretins appear to forget how to behave around others, trust me, you really don't want other people like me to remind them.  I will eat your children if they piss me off.  Be a parent, remind them of basic bloody manners around others.

I have a rule.  Under no circumstances will I enter the play frame.  None.  As a child I didn't even like slides. Not to mention i'm fat and also pregnant.  The Spawn for told that as this was The Preschoolers first time on the main equipment they were to stick to him like glue.  This naturally  resulted in The Preschooler brandishing an unnatural brand of courage and trying to 'lose' them so that Thing Two had a full on emotional breakdown thinking she'd lost him.

The other reason I don't go in there is the ball pool, who only knows which kids have had a sneaky piss or a quick mouthful of vomit erupt in there. Grim.

Despite it having been years since we last went (yes, The Spawn are that deprived)  they still have failed to install adequate air conditioning so that the rampant hoards of wilderkinder in their over excited exuberant state all look close to a) vomiting en masse b) passing out or c) entering full bezerker mode.

Looking around you see random little children in floods of tears as their parents issue a backhanded 'you'll be fine, now fuck off and play so I can continue my adult conversation, cup of tea and a danish without you' kind of response when all their child wants is to be reassured that their arm isn't broken or their eye isn't really bleeding.

Other children get rescued from being trampled on, their parents rightfully rant about it to their possee of other adults who accompanied them before once again hurling the little victim right back into the thick of it without sticking around to see they're okay.

I'm trying not to sock watch as I idly wonder if verrucas crunch.  I go to my happy place (Hello Mr Northman, why yes I will lick that Gin off of your....) as I try to ignore the extra shine on the equipment that is actually copious amounts of snot.

I bought a jug of juice as it was the only thing I didn't need to take out a loan to purchase and tried to ignore how the cups were all still wet and avoided sniffing them.  I should have brought Gin.

You disappear to the loo, holding your breath as the stench rises like a miasma threatening to consume you armed with a pack of tissues, because there will be no bog roll.  This you know.

To top it off, to really ensure you realise that this is indeed hell.  You were bad in a past life.  This is your punishment. They turn the music up, so that you can't hear your child cry or scream.  It's not even music.  It's fucking Abba.  Kill me now.  Please.

Thankfully the husband on his shiny steed arrived eventually and thirty minutes later the torturous two hours was up, my purse was so empty it was writing bad poetry to me whilst growing a fringe, we were free!  I could breath again.

I did it.  I took the kids out on my own.  You probably do this everyday.  For me however this is an epic achievement.  I did something normal.  Despite the shaking and the panic, I went and I stayed.