xmas

Week 25/26, and it was time again to visit the horse-piddle for a routine check.

A test for gestational diabetes (which basically meant Mistress P had a blood test after swallowing a glowing green glucose drink and sitting for an hour), other blood tests and a basic listen-in on Rufous' heart. The full results will be delivered in the new year, but from all accounts everything appeared to check out A-OK, so we're still firmly sitting front and centre on the bus to parentsville.

Sure, theres been a little heartburn, a few backaches and something funny with Mistress P's left knee (we're not too sure what thats from - maybe the quick pre-beach-hol trip to the waxing lady/rubbing from a shorty wetsuit, so we wont use Rufous name in vain for thatta one just yet), but it would appear all is bubbling along just dandy. And just in time for Xmas too.

We've also entered the dribbler stage.

Seems when a lady reaches a certain proportion (i.e., belly further north than her chin), then all of a sudden those little 'oops' when a drink slips off the lips, or a bit of jam topples off the toast, it doesnt just plop on the plate or floor (embaressing enough, granted), rather it displays itself as a long and obvious smear down the front of the shirt. A bit hard to keep that veneer of sophistication...

Speaking of food, it appears that everyone has a theory on how much or how little a preggas lass should be eating. Mistress P can put it away at the best of times - she appears to have the metabolism of a hummingbird - so theres an element of frustration when people ohh and ahh about how much she has been eating, when in fact its pretty much par for her course. Not to mention that being on xmas hols at Sandy Point, eating your own bodyweight is not only commonplace, it's in the holiday rental agreement.

Mistress P's happy, Rufous is healthy, and there's even a little catch-it tray so no food goes to waste. Perfect. Print this post