It's a quarter to three, the alarm's set for seven thirty and I'm sitting up next to arkady as she waits for the antacid to kick in. Arkady did make a very spicy chili con carne with added shitload of basil for dinner. The contractions are getting stronger and Freda might actually show up today! Or not.
arkadianchilde is Arkady's pregnancy journal, kept unlocked as a public service. I'm telling her to write a book. We've kicked the crap midwife off the case (and used the words "formal complaint" talking to her boss), and we've been seeing really nice ones instead. One came round today with the home birth kit, which is just so cool. Dig those pictures. And they all love the birth plan. As far as we can tell, all the bureaucratic rubbish we've been dealing with is entirely due to the crap midwife, and we shouldn't even have to go BOFH on their arses.
Arkady and I spent this weekend at home waiting for a birth while redcountess went to Whitby to party with
ashbet,
kiraboo and the g*ths. Her photos.
My boss knows that when I get the call, I'm out the building pronto; we arranged I can tick that time off as paternity leave. (You're supposed to book paternity leave a week in advance. Most human resources people I've known were mothers, but I wouldn't be surprised if they did give birth per appointed hourly slot.) It helps that my boss's boss has two teenagers and has been very enthusiastic for my impending fatherhood.
I look forward to thinking "The tube! That's the place without baby poo! Work! The place I can sleep!" each morning. I expect I'll catch up on sleep around 2025, when we pack Freda off to university. Why don't they do summer camp in the UK, where you can get rid of the kid for weeks at a time.