I’m going to drop the pregnadvency stuff after this, for several reasons, the main being a) it’s now after Crimble and I had no time pre-crimble to do 24 of them, which would have been a sensible amount, but also because b) I have no idea how long this is going to go on, so I might as well stop numbering stuff and just write stuff instead.

As I mentioned before, the thing they don’t tell you when going into pregnancy, the thing that no one really mentions, is that the due date is not really as firm an estimate as they pretend.

The due date is the point at the end of 40 weeks when you might be ‘done’. But then again, some babies are done at 38 weeks, and some are done at 42. Some might be done past 42, but after that the medicals don’t like them still being in there, so they reach in and get them out for you, so 42 weeks pregnant is (pretty much) the only definite number in the mix.

Everything else is very, very vague. The ‘due date’ is not a bus schedule.
It’s not even the most likely date, not in and of itself.
It’s a date in the middle of a four week window when your baby may possibly arrive.
This is vague.

I’m bad at vague. Which is surprising for someone who is very good at BEING vague. I am just not so great with large life situations being vague. I don’t like life being vague at me. I really don’t like it at all. And it’s happened quite a lot in the last few years, which is why I’m so confident in saying “I really don’t like it”.

I am also very, very bad at waiting. I’m bad at vague, and I’m bad at waiting. I am - particularly when I don’t know when the thing I am waiting for is going to arrive, some of the people who know and love me best would say – ‘horrific’ at waiting.

It’s like (and not physically, obviously, I’m not comparing the physical sensation, just the idea) - it’s like someone saying that “at some point over the next four weeks, you’re going to break your leg”. No indication of when, or how, or how badly it will hurt, just that at SOME point over the next four weeks, your leg will definitely be broken. This is the kind of thing designed to drive most people mad, isn’t it? It’s certainly the kind of thing designed to drive me mad.

And so it is not unlikely to suggest that IF someone told me that “at some point in the next four weeks - not saying when, or how - you WILL break your leg”, I would quickly go mad to the point of sitting with a large hammer, attempting to break my own leg so at least I didn’t have to do any waiting on vagueness.

But I’m not doing that, obviously. There is no hammer I can take to this leg.
I mean, yes, I’m eating my spicy food a little more spicy than usual, I’m being more dedicated about walking daily than maybe I was last week, and I’m drinking tea that tastes of leaves and dirt, and I may or may not be eating an entire pineapple a day (which hurts, by the way)(and yes, I am remembering to take the skin off) - but the basic fact is, Doozer will come when he’s ready. And if he’s not ready to arrive, he won’t arrive, no matter how excited I am to meet him, and no matter how strongly I detest the waiting.

Which is fine. I will be patient if it means that everyone will be healthy and comfortable and nothing will be unduly rushed. But it doesn’t mean I will like waiting. And it doesn’t mean I will like the vagueness. No. No, I will not.

*Sits patiently, twitching only a little.*

HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

That is all.

Doozer has still not arrived (I probably would have mentioned that first, to be honest, before the Christmas thing, sorry Jesus) but appears to have *maybe* (I’m not sure) engaged, which means he’s moved down my abdomen finally in preparation for arriving at some point. At least, I assume that’s what’s happened. Some indications say so, the internet (of course) says the opposite, because it is the internet and therefore useless. We’ll see.

ANYWAY: point is, it’s Christmas. The last Christmas in a while where we get to lie in as long as we damn well pleased and do very little all day. By next year, there will be one member of the family stumbling around, shouting random syllables and threatening to pull over the tree. And for once it won’t be me. A ha ha ha ha ha. Etc.

But that wasn’t the point of this post. The point of this post is: Happy Christmas, everyone. You’re all lovely. Thank you for still being here, internet.

Known Knowns
- It is December 21rd.
- While I am freelance, and therefore have no ‘maternity leave’ as such, the people I’ve been working for exclusively for most of this year have me until the 23rd December. It would have been longer, but they’re mostly away next week, so Friday it is. That’s two days from now. After that I’m officially ‘on a maternity break’, which is kind of like being freelance, but with less work, less running after work, and more panicking about when the work will return.
- The baby is due on January 4th.
- If the baby doesn’t come for two weeks after that date (so before January 18th), they’ll induce labour. So whatever happens, I’ll have a baby in the next four weeks.
- I am not scared of labour.
- It is Christmas at the weekend.
- Doozer is not yet “engaged” (This means his head is not yet settled in the birth position in my pelvis)
- My pelvis bones are coming apart and clicking like crazy.
- If “nesting” means obsessively cleaning out cupboards, then I am not yet nesting.
- The weather isn’t very nice.
- We have still not decided on a name. We have a shortlist of three, though, so we’re getting there. The decision can wait until we meet Doozer.
- “Doozer” is not on the shortlist.

Known Unknowns
- I am now 38 weeks, which is officially full term. I could have given birth at home from last week, but from now until four weeks from now, I could give birth any time and it would be considered full term.
(Honestly, they tell you at the beginning that pregnancy is 40 weeks long, and you mentally process that and work things out, and then, as the time approaches, they suddenly say “Yeah: OR 38 weeks… Or 42. I mean, whatever, right?” THIS IS SHONKY BEHAVIOUR.)
- While Doozer is due on January 4th, I have actually decided he should come next week. The 29th. That’s a nice date. It’s a nice number. It’s a prime. I also like ‘11 as a year. That’s also a good number. 2011 is also a prime.
- Doozer could engage any time between now and the beginning of labour. For some people it happens in their 36th week, for others, it happens as labour begins.
- I do not know what will happen when I am “not working” and “not having anything to do but wait”. Although I hope it will involve finishing this pregnadvency calendar.
- I do not know when I will start taking work on again, though at the moment am planning for early February. (Don’t say anything. Trust me, I have had to be talked down from ‘the second week of January’. The panic is strong in this one). I don’t know how that will be.
- There are known ways of inducing labour and encouraging it naturally to start. It is unknown how well they will work if Doozer doesn’t feel like coming out anyway. It is also unknown how much we want to talk about those ways.
- I know, technically, how labour happens and how it all begins. I’ve read a lot, and been to classes, although everything I’ve learnt keeps slipping out of my head. Regardless, I have no idea what the physical sensation will be like, and how I’ll know when it’s starting.
- I am not scared of labour. I’m scared of not knowing whether I’m going into labour or not.
- True fact: waters breaking - like you see in films and on tv, is not generally the first sign of labour. The majority of the time is happens during the process, when labour’s well established. I can’t believe that sitcoms lied to me about this.

I am not very good with not knowing things.
So if Doozer is reading this (I know he can hear, so I will read this bit out loud just in case he can’t see through my eyes): the 29th. The 29th is a very good date to be born.

The unknown unknowns
- I don’t know what these are.

This is more of an actual asking for advice than anything else.

I know, unusual. Usually I’m all: I don’t want your advice, I will do it MYSELF, thank you. I am stubborn and annoying like that. But the fact is that:

a) I like you and trust you, you’re nice people. And most of you seem eminently sensible. And even those that don’t seem eminently sensible are nice, and probably know something useful.

b) The amount of STUFF out there is quite, quite dizzying. The amount of recommendations and anti-recommendations and suggestions and condemnations and such are brain-melting.

c) People know stuff that I don’t know. It is not a terrible thing to ask for help or advice every now and again.

So here I am, asking a question. If you have had a baby, or know people who have who have passed on essential advice to you regarding stuff, please pass that on. Tell me, if there was ONE THING (or maybe a couple of things, but let’s not go insane) that you are really glad that you had, or were given, or handed-down, or shoplifted, or whatever, can you tell me what it was?

A toy? A book? A book for you? A book for them? A decoration? A piece of practical equipment? An item of clothing? A thing?

Let me know, and if I can find it somewhere - if you have a link to the thing you mean all the brillianter - and I will put it on my wishlist thing: (Which is here, by the way. Just saying, like…) and hopefully get it at some point.

(Please bear in mind that if you look at the wishlist thing, it represents other things that I have been recommended, or that I intend to buy at some point in the near future, not the sum total of everything I already have. We already have quite a LOT of stuff, bought, given and handed down, but I’m sure we’ll cover that in the comments…)

So yes. Please help and advise me, people who know more than I do: if there is one THING that one should go into parenthood having, or just one one thing that you or someone close to you is grateful for having at the time, what was that thing?

There was one day last week when I wanted nothing more than my duvet. My Beloved tried to get me out of bed every way he could think. Bribery, cajoling, promises of treats and fried breakfasts and threats of bedsores and sleepless nights if I didn’t get up.

I wouldn’t get up.

Quite apart from the fact that I can sleep about 17 hours a day at the moment (or could, until a few nights ago, when a weird kind of insomnia started to kick in), I realised, most of the way through my day in bed, that I was basically hiding.

The only way, I thought, I could easily be persuaded to get up would be if someone turned up with two tickets to a holiday where I could go and lie on a sun lounger, next to a swimming pool, and read books and do nothing else. And not pack my bump.

So there I was. Lying in bed wanting two things that were impossible: to
a) Hide from it all or
b) Run away.

And that is before we even get into the hilariousness of me trying to run ANYWHERE right now. Let alone “away from my own uterus”.

I think this is natural. It was not about not wanting the stuff that is coming. Nor was it about not being excited to meet Doozer, when he arrives (and I am, I’m so excited I might burst). It was about being overwhelmed by the enormity of it all, by the soonness of it all, the inevitability of it all.

At some point when I my stomach suddenly expanded to a reasonably large and round size, somewhere around 25 weeks pregnant or so, I remember looking down at it, and thinking “Oh! That is my stomach! Oh! It’s going to get bigger. AND OH, HE THEN HAS TO GET OUT OF THERE SOMEHOW!…” - and this was basically an extension of that small panic.

Except bigger. Far bigger.
And including all the other things there are to worry about at this point. The possibility of things going wrong with the birth that we heard all about in birthing classes. The possibility of something damaging the baby in the process. The fact that I have no idea how it will feel when it starts, no matter how much I read, or how many classes I attend or people I talk to, I have literally no idea how it wil feel when it begins, how long the labour will last, what will happen - until I get in such a tizzy trying to consider all of those things that I can no longer remember when to call the midwife, or what I’m meant to do or…. And that’s why I wanted to go to bed and not get up. Or run away and hide.

I think this is natural. It’s pretty natural for me, anyway. The desire to run away or hide from something isn’t new, or restricted to this. It’s just what happens. Or rather, it’s just what happened last week.

So I lay in bed and was scared. And I thought through all the worst possible things that could happen, and the most terrible outcomes of any particular situation, and I pulled the duvet over my head and let these things race around my brain.

And then the next day I got up. And everything was ok.

There are a lot of scary things about what’s happening. There’s no point in ignoring them, but there’s no point in obsessing about them either. Not endlessly. I process things slowly - and, I admit, mainly process things by hiding under duvets - but the processing bit has to happen in order to feel calm and prepared and ok about the enormous stuff.

I have learnt a lot during this whole pregnancy thing. But this was one of the most important.
It doesn’t mean I’ll want to run away or hide any less in the future, or course, but at least I’ll know that if I can’t do those things, if those things are completely impossible, I can at least do one thing.

I can go to bed.
And that will solve EVERYTHING.

No, wait, that wasn’t the lesson. Oh, well, it was something like that, anyway. I’ll go to bed and think it through properly.

[I continue to be completely brilliant at deciding to do blog series of things while also having lots of work to do: in this case, the rush of work that will take me up to Christmas and then disappear for what I assume I should call a 'maternity break' (meaning a space of time in which no money appears, before I panic about that and start working again as soon as I can). Never mind. I will catch up with my little blog series thing over the next few days. They are all planned out in my head anyway]

The week after I discovered I was pregnant, I had a manicure and pedicure.
I was around six weeks pregnant at the time.

This is not, in itself, an interesting story. I mean, it’s quite a nice story, I was in San Francisco, I had it done with my friend R, who I was dying to tell but couldn’t, and I had never in my life had a mani-pedi before, so it was all nice story, but not, in itself, interesting.

However, here’s the interesting bit: I have not had a pedicure since.

Ok, I admit that, in itself, this is also not very interesting.

HOWEVER: not having a pedicure since, I haven’t taken the polish off one of my toenails, either. On my big toe. And therefore, I know this…

My big toenail on my left foot is, when cut very short, 13mm long. It was painted when I was about six weeks pregnant, and, at time of writing, when I am 37 weeks pregnant (officially full-term enough to have the baby at home) there are still a full 3mm of nail polish left at the top of the nail.

THEREFORE: It takes longer to grow one entire adult toenail than it takes to grow an entire new human.
There y’go.
Science.

A little icky and certainly slatternly for scientific research, I admit, but I don’t care. It is SCIENCE.

You’re welcome.

In fact, just a story that I found in an old schoolbook that My Little Mother brought to our family pre-Christmas weekend last week. It has nothing at all to do with being pregnant, I just wanted to post it.

This is a story I wrote when I was about 6, as far as I can gather. It raises some interesting points.

One beautiful day I was walking by the sea in May 12th and this viking walked by and I said “Stop who are you!” and he said “I am a viking.” “How do you do” I said and a little rabbit said “he is a viking and vikings are bad So he is bad.” So next day I went down with a little sword to kill him. First I got a little sword and then I killed him. The End.

1) Firstly, you will have noticed that tiny Anna is not shy about killing people.

2) Those of you who have been around a while might recognise that this is not a one-off. Six-year-old Anna was apparently quite gung-ho. Usually in the case of justifiable political assassination, but also, as we see here, random slayings on the say-so of small rabbits.

3) I think more questions should be asked about the presence of the rabbit in this whole story. Clearly this was not merely an innocent bystanding role. Little Anna was perfectly happy to make the acquaintance of the Viking before the small rabbit got involved. So the small rabbit was the agitator in this situation. I’m not accusing the rabbit of anything, I’m just saying that if it came to court, there could be a case made that the Rabbit had some kind of problem with vikings and that little Anna was merely the weapon in this grudge match. Just saying.

4) I wish any Viking readers to know that while I may have been swayable to anti-viking sentiment of small rabbits, but I am now as accepting of Viking readers as I am of all other readers.

5) For the record, May 12th is my birthday. So it was a particularly good time to go walking by the sea on. I mean ‘in’.

6) I think someone should look into the “little sword” laws. They’re clearly too easy to get hold of for 6-year-old girls.

Other than that, I am very proud of this story.
Apart from the rabid anti-Viking sentiment, and the blind trust placed in small agitator rabbits, I think I am a very strong, proactive character in this story. Unlike another story that I found in the same stack of books, but I will save that for a separate post.

Vikings, my apologies. And on behalf of my six-year-old self: you might want to watch your back. The rabbits are after you.

(I am writing down all the things about pregnancy I wish to remember while I remember to do so. And because they might prove useful, or interesting someday. Or at least funny. Any one of those three would be fine.)

I have not had any cravings, I don’t think. Not good ones.

This has been a matter of some disappointment to me. It had always seemed like one of the perks of pregnancy: that you could suddenly demand doughnuts at 2am and someone HAD to get them for you, or you could dine exclusively on pickled gerkins and no one would stop you, because it would be because you were pregnant, and therefore your body was telling you what it needed, and it would be terrible not to pay proper attention to your body.

But no.
None of this.

Of course, mainly this could be put down to the fact that I eat like a crazy person anyway. I admit I wouldn’t notice a sudden desire for cheese and marmalade and marmite sandwiches if that’s what I usually have for breakfast anyway. When I was doing my masters degree I once put myself on a pickled onion diet, in the belief that if, every time I wanted a snack, I could only have a pickled onion (which I didn’t particularly like), it would help me stop snacking so help me lose weight and be cheaper. I just ended up liking pickled onions a lot.

These are the weird food things I can report have happened in pregnancy:

- I went off coffee. During my first trimester. It wasn’t that it made me sick, or the smell of it repulsed me, I just couldn’t remember why I ever liking it in the first place. Which is frankly remarkable. It was the first time since being a teenager that I didn’t lust after the smell or the taste of coffee. On the contrary, I just had no idea why I would want it.
(I still wanted caffeine, don’t get me wrong. I did very good research into the amount of caffeinated fizzy drinks I could have in a day. A girl has her needs)

- I wanted melon. Squares of honeydew melon (which I generally find to be a forgettable fruit) particularly. For pudding. Or just, frankly, any time at all. Again, only for the first few months of pregnancy.

- I think wanted stewed apple. I made large vats of it for a few weeks in a row. Like apple crumble but without the crumble. If this was a craving, it was a very good one. Although frankly I could have done with someone else making it. I *still* didn’t get to demand special 3am service (or doughnuts) just for being pregnant. Whinge. Moan. Grump.

- That’s it. Apart from a markedly sweeter tooth than ever before.

- No pickles. Or rather, no more pickles than usual.

But then… and if it’s worth saying once, it’s worth saying a thousand times, because apparently it never stops being true – making banging on about pregnancy completely pointless (and being pregnant without knowing anything about what it’s like to be pregnant utterly, totally mystifying) – every pregnancy is different. Some people have lots of fun cravings during pregnancy. Other people get to eat cheese and jam sandwiches for the other 34 years of their life.
Frankly, I’m now feeling sorry for the cravinggy ones.

My Advent Calendar of posts about pregnancy is a few days behind. I am catching up.

One of the things that no one mentions much about pregnancy before you happen to tumble under its wheels is the gas. I know I said I wouldn’t mention the gas, some time ago, but damnit, I can’t not.

Babies are made of gas. That is what I have concluded.
Unborn babies, I mean.
Borned babies (technical term - thanks, internet) are made of real stuff, like bodies and cuteness and matter and biology and other sciences. And poo.
But unborn babies are made of gas. It’s hard to believe, because they’re quite heavy, and move around in your stomach quite a lot, and you can look at them with magical cameras and listen to their heartbeats with magical microphones, but the point is: They Are MADE of GAS.

Because if they are NOT made of gas, there is no earthly explanation for the amount of gas that goes along with being pregnant.

Facts:
They are not very attractive facts, but please deal with that, or go away and wait for the next post. I promise it will be along soon.

1. I think I burp more often than I speak at the moment.
2. I used to hide it, fearing it might make me seem less ladylike, but I gave up on that about four months ago. Honestly, you can’t get more womanly than having a baby, right? So taking that as a given, I decided I might as well burp as much as I wanted.
Or rather “as much as I was going to anyway”.
3. Once, several months ago, after thoughtlessly eating a tin of beans when I’d just got to Canada and hadn’t remembered to get any gas tablets yet, I had to sleep lying on the floor with my legs straight up against the wall at a right angle, because it was the only possible way to stay vaguely comfortable.
4. My Beloved thinks that the fact that I might be farting an extraordinary amount means that he has free rein to fart as much as he wants. THIS IS NOT THE CASE.
5. Apart from beans, the type of food eaten or drink consumed seems to have nothing to do with the volume of gas released from the pregnant body. Or if it does, the amount of gas is so far above the amount of matter consumed that it is almost impossible to work out the correlation between the two.
6. I can burp half the alphabet now.
7. I could probably fart the other half, but frankly I’d never thought of it until this moment. I’ll let you know.
8. I used to be a lot more English and reserved about talking about these sorts of things.
9. There are only some kinds of gas/wind/indigestion tablets you can take during pregnancy. You have to look on the side of the box to check if they’re the right kind. I think someone out there should probably just market a brand with a box that just has writing all over it, shouting “HEY MS BLOATYFARTBURP! YES! YOU! THE SUPERGASSY PREGNANT OVER THERE! THIS IS WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR! YAY!” because frankly pregnants must make up 90% of their market anyway.
10. I burped four times while writing this list. And it really didn’t take that long to write this list.

And why?
Because babies are made of gas.

But how can something so tiny, and so innocent looking, possibly be the cause of so much gas? How can a baby, swimming around in a bag of amniotic fluid, possibly help create such a volume of expellable air? How? There is only one explanation. Because, and I will find scientific proof for this if it kills me: BABIES ARE MADE OF GAS.

I know that when they’re born, they’re solid. Painfully solid. I can only assume that they change from their gaseous to their solid state at some time during the passage out of the womb, which, frankly, seems to be shoddy timing on someone’s behalf. They could have the decency to remain gas until they had escaped from the womb, and THEN become solid, although I realise that them solidifying out of thin air might be slightly freakier than what actually happens anyway.

Oh who am I kidding? Nothing could be freakier than what actually happens anyway.

But regardless, it is a very sound theory (and one day, will be a very firm scientific proof) that babies are made of gas. It is the only possible explanation.

(Note, just because I said I was planning on writing something every day in December, it did not, of course, mean that I was going to be near a computer every day in December. On the contrary, I spent the weekend in a lovely 16th Century Landmark Trust cottage with much of my family, eating too much in an early-Christmas kind of way. With no internet. So I am catching up. Anyway, it’s nice when you get to open several advent calendar windows in a row, right? More chocolate.)

The first piece of advice we were given by any friend or family member, on hearing we were having a baby was this:

“Do not tell anyone the name you are planning to give the baby. Or even the shortlist of names. They will ruin it for you. They will say “Oh. Really?!?” like you’ve told them that you’re thinking of marrying a goat, or say “Oh! I had a maths teacher called that. I hated him. And he turned out to be an arsonist who killed fifteen people.” or they will just say “Gosh. What a name.” while wrinkling their nose like they’d just smelled something awful. Tell no one. Not even family. Keep it to yourself until after the child is born and has actually been given the name. Then they can’t say anything.”

Which is partly bollocks, of course. As far as I can tell, the child being born and actually having the name will be no impediment at all to people stating their opinion. Some people will just state it anyway, because it is what people feel the need to do once you procreate. I understand that. But the rest of that advice: good. It makes sense.
It is what we have been doing.

We have, dear reader, a list.
It is a good list. It is a slightly long list, as it contains about a dozen names that we both like.
It was slightly easier before we knew what sex Doozer is. There was a short list of girls names - only about three - that we both agreed on, and liked one of those ten times more than the other two (I’m not revealing what those are, obviously. Not until I know I will never have a girl ever. Because otherwise, someone will ruin it for me).
But Doozer is a boy. Indubitably, they tell us, a little male person.
And so we’ve made a list of male names that we like, and that fit within our strict made-up rules and guidelines.

And I’m not telling you what those are, either, although they include:
*Nothing that you need to spell out for people every time you tell them your name.
*Nothing that too obviously claims a romantic or exotic heritage that we can’t really claim.
*Nothing in a top ten list of fashionable names.
*Nothing that makes the boy’s surname sound any more like a euphemism than it already does.

That last one needs a little unpacking, possibly.

We don’t share a surname, My Beloved and I. The reason (not being married to each other) is simple. Although that was, bless them, the first question that one good friend asked on hearing the news, even before saying congratulations:

Friend: “WOW! A baby! So are you getting married asap?”
Me: “No. Because we’re not hillbillies.”

So after much debate - and some convoluted stuff involving My Beloved trying to argue that he is “The last of his line” (doubtful: he’s called Johnson. It’s not exactly a dying name), and since there’s no point both of us changing our names to a shared other name (we’d never use it, since both of us trade on our names anyway, same as if we got married) we have currently settled on the fact that Pickard will be a middle name, Johnson the last one.

But Johnson is a slang term for penis, in some parts of the world. So nothing that makes that any more obvious, or rude, can be used. Hugh Johnson sounds too much like ‘Huge’, for example. Someone told me that ‘colour’ names were in, but ‘Brown Johnson’ is bad, and ‘Green Johnson’ is even worse. Randy, out. Woody, out. Not that these were ever strictly in the running, but still, it’s frustrating to have your options limited. Epic, is also out, although it is still a name worth considering, so if your surname ISN’T a euphemism for a penis, you can have that one for free.

Still, Epic is still on the list of names that I give people when they first ask what we’re planning on naming our child. It is a good list. It is a list that I like to see how far I can get through before they stop nodding politely and say “You’re kidding, right? RIGHT?”

The names Anna and Her Beloved are TOTALLY SERIOUSLY considering for their progeny:
1) Sonic.
2) Megatron.
3) Olympic (to mark the Olympics, you see. It’s topical)
4) Epic.
5) Ace.
6) David Cameron.
7) Prince.
8) Colonel.
9) Throbbing.
10) Messiah.

Although if any of you HAVE chosen these names for your children, let me congratulate you. They’re very special. Gosh, what a name.

I want to try and write one thing a day this month, almost entirely about pregnancy, so I don’t forget it all before the next part (the baby part) so don’t be surprised if all the windows in my particular advent calendar open to reveal a heavily pregnant woman wishing she had a donkey because frankly it would be better than having to waddle out for a walk one more time.

- Pregnants can’t sleep on their back. There’s a thing no one bothered to tell me before I turned into one. After a certain point in pregnancy (and that could be further along for some people than others, because, never forget, NO PREGNANCY IS THE SAME AS ANY OTHER. It is both one of the most charming and annoying things about it) - somewhere in the middle, say - the increasing weight of your uterus makes it slightly uncomfortable to be on your back. A little further on - closer to two thirds of the way through, perhaps - the increasing weight of your uterus makes it so that lying on your back can make you feel dizzy, nauseous, and possibly fainty. And this is ‘lying on your back’, remember.
Not something fun and exciting like ‘hang-gliding’, or ’swimming with sharks’. This is ‘that thing that you’ve been doing ever since you were born when you wanted to take a nap’. It’s ‘lying on your back’.

I really, really miss lying on my back right now. Please, if you get the chance, have a little lie on your back for me. And just think about how nice that is. Don’t tell me though. It will only make me sad.

- Pregnants can’t sleep on their stomach either. Because someone else is already sleeping on it.

- It is most healthy for the everyday Pregnant to sleep on their left side. Though they can also sleep on their right. And they can sleep on both. Left, then right, then left again for a while, and then maybe back to the right. Which sounds simple enough - and it is… until, I am discovering, you are almost fully cooked (say, 8 months out of the recommended nine done).
Then it isn’t anymore.
I sleep on both my left side and my right. Fine. But getting from one to the other is currently like moving a three-seater sofa up a flight of stairs. I have to wake up every time and try and consider which end to move first, and at which angle. My objective may just to put a different side of my cheek on the pillow, but it’s prefaced by all manner of strategic “to-me, to-you” to get there.
This is not very restful. Especially when you lie on your back half way through and think “Oooh, this is nice…”, and then remember that it’s just not going to work out well at all.

- There is money in pregnancy pillows Not literally. Although if they were stuffed with fivers it might, I supposed, go some way toward explaining how expensive they are. Instead, they are just pillows. Special pillows you can buy to help you sleep in pregnancy. Which makes them sound very simple. They are not. Some are shaped like bananas, and filled with beans. Some are shaped like swans, and filled with science. Some, shaped like elephants, have a large flap that you lie on, a lump of foam to support your bump, a long padded trunk to rest between your knees, and take up about half the bed (if you have a king size bed, otherwise they take up about three-quarters of it. Good luck if you have a partner).

I have a banana filled with tiny beans. It is very effective at getting an optimal night’s sleep. At least that is what Smallcat (who has commandeered it) assures me. When she isn’t using it, I sometimes get to. I also find it to be good.

- Unlike the ’sleep when they sleep’ rule I have been told to observe once Doozer emerges, late pregnancy contains the rule: “Only one of you will sleep at once”. Getting to know the small adorable parasite living in your middle, it turns out that the moving around you do during the day, walking, working, talking etc, helps to soothe them to sleep. When it is quiet and still, that is when they wake up and do the most kicking in the innards with their adorable little feet. Their feet (sight unseen) are very adorable. The kicking is only questionably adorable.

Oh alright, it’s also adorable.

- The first and last thirds of pregnancy are generally recognised as being the sleepiest: Which is reassuring, because

*Falls asleep*