I am the walrus.
Week 32, and I'm enormous. No matter how much I want to be in control of my own body, Fetie is determined to let me know that it's not mine to control anymore!
I wouldn't say I'm waddling, exactly, but it seems that every time I stand up and try to walk somewhere, I need to experiment a little with the way my legs move in relation to my hips. And as expected, most of the time I stand up and try to walk, it's to go to the loo.
Yesterday's ante-natal clinic appointment was even speedier than the last one - I didn't even need to see a renal specialist. Which was nice. Blood pressure is ever-so-slightly elevated, but still in a normal range. Fetie is still head-down, and unlikely to move anywhere else because he's quickly running out of room.
On my way home from work last night I watched the little pantomime that Fetie puts on at various session times during the day (usually 4am, 7am, 3pm, 6pm and 9pm). I convinced myself that to other people on the bus I appeared to be merely staring down at my book, but in fact I was enjoying the freaky undulations of my belly. As Dad-to-be describes it, "watching a mouse run around under a blanket". It's a great way to pass the time, as long as Fetie isn't playing the stab-mummy-in-the-bladder game.
Apart from being verbally supportive and extremely tolerant of the occasional hormone-based emotional outburst that I surprise him with every now and then, Dad-to-be has made an effort to make sure I am never without a nickname throughout the pregnancy. Although he seems to have settled on 'Boombah' (and assures me that a boombah is actually quite cute), we've also had:
- Buddha (particularly when doing yoga in the lounge room)
- Alfred (as in Hitchcock)
- Fat Mama
- The Walrus
And now, a long overdue Belly Shot: