Formaggio

People (fans even) have been asking for more bump pictures. I know, I know, it's surprising to hear that people other than my mother read this blog. But anyway, there you go. Here is a recent one taken before the longest, more boring opera at Holland Park. Still the picnic was nice (always thinking about the food, me).
You will notice that in my hand is a rather petite slice of Parmigiano Reggiano. Everyone knows that I am a cheese freak. We had our engagement party in a fromagerie, for goodness sake. But this, this slice of nutty, crumbly, heavenly Parmesan is something else entirely.
Not only is this probably the biggest piece of cheese I only just managed to lift up (1.3 kilograms, to be precise), but it was sent over, from Italy, to give my baby a calcium hit. You've got to love Piera, my dear sister-in-law, Federica's Mama. She was actually concerned enough about the Pullen Bear and it's second trimester development, that this hunk of brilliance was packed in alongside Fed's Louboutin heels, so that the baby isn't born with rickets.
Actually, I eat a lot of calcium as it is, what with the Weetabix, milk and yoghurt that pass my lips on a daily basis. But, hey, I'm not telling Piera.
In my opinion, this is one of the best presents that anyone - pregnant, or not - can receive, and I'm not sure how happy I'm going to be when it runs out.
If you are a real Bumps Along the Way fan, you may now thinking, 'But ah ha, she can't eat her spag bol, these days, so how is she going to consume all of this PR?'.
Well stuff the tummy aches; cheese like this deserves the best ragu that money can't buy. So, I'm hoping that on their next visit back to Italy, Sister-in-law and darling Brother, may just return with an authentic batch for my, I mean, baby's consumption. After all, the bear needs protein too.

A massage and a minor celebrity bump

This is not me. If it were, the bump would be a third bigger (maybe more), and I'd at least face the camera. This is Rachel Stevens, who is one week ahead of me and who I was half hoping might be in our NCT class. After all, the class is in Belsize Park and she lives in Primrose Hill, and S Club 7 aside, she's just a nice normal Jewish Princess who probably hangs out in the same places as the rest of the troupe. That was my train of thought when I read in the Mail that she was basically the same as me, pregnancy-wise.
But all thoughts of Rachel Stevens, and basically, anything half logical dropped out of my mind as I rushed towards Elemis in Lancashire Court yesterday evening for my first pregnancy massage. 'Yes, yes, yes, this is the end of the back pain,' was basically all that my mushing pregnancy brain could handle. I was excited beyond belief. And then I walked in, not looking my best, I hasten to add: it had been raining on the walk and my look yesterday was something close to pathetic. Anyway, who is standing paying at the till. Rachel Bloody Stevens. This rattled me on several levels.
Firstly, her bump is tiny, like weeny. I actually felt a bit bad for her. I mean you want to look pregnant by now, right?! She was there with her Mum, and was loving the rose oil capsules that her therapist had just used. Anyhoo, after listening to her wittle on, and being moved out of my comfy chair (onto something rigid and hard on my back) because RS had been sitting there, I decided that it would probably be better if she wasn't part of the NCT gang. Who wants to share their deepest, darkest, most panting moments with a celeb? Not me, I now realise.
Once Miss Stevens had left the building I was ushered upstairs to a cool, dark room and placed (sans clothes) on a very comfy set of beanbags. The therapist was good. Not amazing, but very soft and respectful. She worked on my Uber Knot and then told me that it was proably a trapped nerve. Nice. Today, I can report that the massage has done NOTHING to relief the tension. Mmm, maybe it is a trapped nerve. Now I just need to work out if Bupa cover chiropathy.

Sadness and spaghetti

A sad thing happened on Saturday. I ate a large portion of my favourite dish in the world, Spag Bol, and all was dandy. We watched A Single Man and had a very pleasant, if somewhat chilled evening.
Then, halfway through the night, when I'm usually accustomed to re-wedging the pillow, I noticed an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Not in the baby bit, The Pullen Bear has been dancing about (kind of even fighting a bit, hope it isn't a rebel) this weekend, but there was distinct rumblings in my stomach. By Sunday morning I was in agony. The Spag Bol had been rejected. I'm not sure if it was my greedy portion or the general meaty, stodginess of it all, but my stomach said 'NO' to the bolognese. And I was left in a crumpled heap on the couch, not sure whether the over full pain or the saddness at losing my favourite dish was worse. This morning, I'm still in mourning.

The shape of things to come

This is me and B,
Neither is particularly wee;
We're two weeks apart,
And ever since the start
We've noticed that the Pullen bump is a bit UP-start
And hers doesn't really agree

Ok, yes I'm rubbish at poetry, but the picture says it all really. What does it mean that B is riding low and my bump is so high?
According to old wives tales, I should be having a girl and B will be popping out a boy in early December. Except we're both carrying all at the front, which also means baby boys. Mmm, these old wives need to get their stories straight.
Anyway, we had fun slotting our bumps together, and admiring the differences. My high up shape means a squashed tummy and digestive grief, while B always need to pee - for obvious cramped bladder reasons.
Lucky us. No, really, lucky us. We don't mind the odd, undignified pregnancy side-effect; we love our bumps and we can't wait for BABY TIME!

The case of the disappearing belly button

No, that isn't me. My belly button hasn't yet popped, but boy is it doing some strangely intriguing things! First is went shallower and wider, and really quite prettier. Now it is about to pop and I'm mildly FREAKED!
Darling Husband proclaimed that the changing belly button, 'was the most fascinating part of pregnancy so far', which I thought was a bit of an overstatement. What with the kicks, the enormous tummy and a pair of bosoms never seen before anywhere near my body.
I think what he's saying is that the belly button changes are visible, on a daily basis. The other day, when I got out of the bath, it popped out and then went back in again. I yelped. And then laughed.
Man, this pregnancy thing is amusing. Unless, of course, I focus the salmon sashimi that hasn't passed my lips for the past 21 weeks. RIP sushi, I still miss you.

Orchestrated sleep (and sitting)

Doesn't this Mum-to-be look lovely and comfy. Well it's a lie. Sorry, I didn't mean to get all grumpy on myself there, but seriously, no pregnant women sleeps with a smile on her face, even if she's propped up with every pillow known to man.
Pillows are my new best friend. Well actually, all types of bedding are my old best friend, as I love a perfectly plump bed. But now I'm (kind of) over the crisp sheets and the fluffy duvet, because all I care about is the pillow wedged around the bump.
This is the thing about pregnancy. It's totally wonderful (more of which later) and as long as things are progressing normally, you feel good, and happy and relaxed. That is until you need to sleep. Or sit at a desk for 8 hours. Because the pillow works when it's just you, the Super King size bed and DH, but at work, in front of the computer, the pillow would look, well a bit too namby pamby. So I sit here, feet flat on the ground (I am weening myself off crossed legs), waiting for the back to start aching. I feel like I'm on some kind of new strict lifestyle regime where I can't sit the way I want to, or sleep the way I want to, or even waste time the way I'm used to. Because now, free time means KEGELS. Yes, I'm trying to do them three times a day. I'm obviously failing, but time on the tube when I used to play iPhone Scrabble, or read a book, is now consumed with the squeezing and releasing of, well, you know, that muscle down there. Extremely glamourous it is not, but I'm hoping that these exercises will mean no incontinence post-birth. Seriously, people tell you NOTHING about pregnancy before you get yourself up the duff.
On the plus side (yes, there is a plus side), the darling little Pullen Bear is kicking up a storm, literally, in my tummy all the time these days. There are so many movements that I actually yelped a bit last night while I lay - propped up - on the couch not watching television.
Compeletely unrelated to us becoming parents in 4 months, we are trying to ween ourselves off the television (another imposition on my old life). It sounds terrible, but actually, you find you have so many more hours in the evening to chat, cook, beat DH at backgammon and do those annoying chores that make you break out in a sweat (him, not me) but leave you feeling faintly satisfied.
We are becoming new people already, and we're liking it, we think.

Just don't tell my bank manager

Oh dear, I've gone and done a classic Alice. It's a typical me story, and it goes something like this:

Once upon a time, there was a (not so) young girl who got an idea in her head. This time, it wasn't shoes that she wanted. It was an antique nursing chair. 'I know, I'll buy a cheap one on eBay and save us ££££'s and give the baby's nursery a touch of classic, old-fashioned style.'
So off she went, figuratively, and got online and found the chair - see earlier post. 'Wow, get me', she thought to herself, as she deposited £100 in the seller's PayPal account. I am a clever girl.
She hadn't forgotten about the re-upholstery, and after Dearest Parents reminded her that she could get it done in Suffolk at a man they've used before, she was even more pleased. 'I'm not even going to pay London prices to get this bad boy looking spanky and new again,' she told her already bored Darling Husband.
But, ooops, there was a hiccup in this story. And it involved a very beautiful, hand-printed fabric, a big (massive) price tag and a little tuition from the girl's favourite Japanese interiors assistant at Liberty. They talked about the expensive cloth, designed by Jospeh Franks for Jobs Handtryck. And the assistant made her fully aware of the price (an eye-watering £139 a metre) of such a unique piece of woven drill. But the girl wasn't going to give up that easily. So she asked for something similar, something a little less crippling in the finances department but no less vibrant on the outside (the picture above does not do this beautiful print justice). In her eyes, the fabric sparkled. Not literally, that would be strange, but in the sense that the colours look electric and the girl loved that. She told herself this baby's nursery would be a pastel-free zone.
'I'm sorry lady', said the shop assistant to the girl, with sadness in his eyes. 'This colour and intensity is very Swedish, the English comparions are more antique-y, more washed out. If you want that Swedish look, you really have to pay for it.' She gulped.
But then she resolved to become undefeated. 'I will find something else; I shall hunt down those colours and wildflowers and animals and get my baby something beautiful for its chair', she said out loud even though no one was listening.
Except that the man in Liberty was right. After searching high and low, and low and high again, the girl realised that she had quite possibly failed in her copycat task. And as if that wasn't bad enough, she started seriously imagining how dreamy the chair would look in its £139 per metre colourful glory. And then, she realised that she had been in this position before, and that once the visual image was stuck in her head, she knew it was a slippery slope to doing something dangerous with her credit card.

The end (well, not quite....)

Bump fame

My bump is not camera shy. I take a lots of rubbish pictures on my phone to send to family abroad or Darling Husband, or as potentials for the blog that always seem to look a bit too fuzzy for publication. My bump was happy with this level of photographic distribution. Now, it's going BIG TIME.
Tomorrow, bump and I will be in The Times modelling a pair of trousers from the new Gap collection. We needed a range of ages and body shapes for the piece, so I found myself and my token pregnancy shape, pushed forward in front of the camera. I didn't really mind. There are worse ways to spend a Friday, and the pizza at lunch was fantastic. So the bump will be famous and I am already a proud Mummy-to-be.
I am also turning into the biggest groaner this side of the retirement home. These days, when I sit down or bend over, I notice an involuntary groan or moan as my body shifts around to accommodate the new position. I thought this happened right at the end of the 40 weeks, but no, I am already a vocal, groaning pregnant lady who has to turn her internal volume down in public places. It isn't exactly glamourous, I'll grant you that. But then my dear old Grandpa was known for his sit-down groans and it kind of reminds me of him. So I don't mind too much. Maybe he is up there just letting me know that they (Grandma would be with him too) are watching their great-grandchild grow.

HAPPY HALFWAY THERE BABY PULLEN!

Today is a happy day. We've reached the halfway point and had a normal anomaly scan. So for one day only, I've vowed not to worry about our little darling baby Pullen.
Just like it's Mummy, it had two clenched fists (I don't punch, but I am mildly uptight) and like it's Daddy is has the cutest feet in the world. We had fun looking at all its internal bits. Just not those bits. The sex of this baby is staying a secret until D Day in about 20 weeks time. And we can't wait.

It's all in the preparation

These days my waking hours are broken down into food windows. 'Yes, I'd love to meet after work', I'll say, thinking quickly about whether this will mean a sandwich before I leave my desk, or food en route.
On the weekends, it should be easier. And yet, I'm not hungry when I'm at the table, and ravenous when I'm wandering down the street. This, above, is Darling Husband's answer to the problem: one massive, meat-filled, cheesy lasagne. Yum yum. It'll see us through dinner with friends tomorrow night and lunches during the week. Planning in advance, it's fantastic - especially when someone else is doing cooking.
Anyway, enough about food, I'm making myself hungry again, and there isn't any peanut butter in sight. I've been a bit slack with my blog updates of late. This is mainly because I've been super busy at work, and the sun makes sitting at my computer, like, so two months ago (in the rain). Being pregnant in the heat is a challenge, but that doesn't mean I don't want to soak up the warmth on my skin like everyone else. I now consume water like a camel, and have a pathological addiction to ice-cream. The latter couldn't be referred to as a craving, because I eat it to cool myself down rather than satisfy some deep down urge, which has its heart in pickled cucumbers and custard.
So in a sense, I have eating sorted. Sleeping, well that's another topic entirely. I'm not possesed by the burglar syndrome anymore, but I have been trying to wean myself off the flat-backed star position that has become my sleeping fail safe ever since that day on a boat, near Cowes when I nearly kicked darling bro into the sea because my legs were outstretched with such enthusiasm. Anyway, apparenly flat on the back is bad for the baby. BAD NEWS. So now I have to be a good, obedient mother-to-be and lie on my left hand side, facing DH and not exactly getting a peaceful night. That was, until I rather unglamourously shuffed a pillow between my legs, and under the bump, and now I'm like a sleeping baby. Let's hope little Pullen is learning some sleeping tricks too. Ouch, it just kicked. Mmm, I think that means, 'Yes Mum, I know what's what, stop writing about me while I can't defend my side of the story.' Good little baby. I love you very much.

Sweet smells (and The Fridge)

I was spoilt rotten this past weekend, when dearest friends E and C (aka B and D), took me to Floris to redeem my birthday bespoke fragrance gift. As if this wasn't tantalising enough, my pregnancy hormones (those old things again), have rendered my sense of smell supersonic, so my nostrils were flying in overdrive the minute we crossed the Jermyn Street threshold.
It was a thoroughly indulgent and fascinating experience. The Floris nose talked us through base notes, sea algae, Jade Goody's surprisingly complex fragrance and everything else in between. I came out swinging a very snazzy bag from my arm that contained the unique fragrance now known as No.30 - it's a play on my age, and that old Chanel smell that still lingers on many dressing tables (not, I point out, on my own, now that the Floris is there). Anyway, this was without a doubt the pinnacle of my new uber nose.
At the other end of my odour meter is our fridge. Ever since I've had a bun in the oven, I've had major problems with this helpful piece of electrical equipment. Not only does the door squeak when you open in (absolutely nothing to do with being pregnant, but something that frustrates me on at least a thrice daily basis), but the smells that fester inside its cool atmosphere, attack my delicate shnoze like nothing else.
I'm making it sound like I have mouldy old food in my refrigerator. And yet we do our weekly Ocado shop and are very good at throwing away anything out of date. So I think it must just be the concentration of food pongs in one vessel that gets my goat everytime. This is what darling husband says when I pinch my nose and wretch in the background as he tries to reach for the butter, 'Oh for goodness sake, not that again...' Followed swiftly by, 'Ok, you get in there with your mega nostrils and find the offending bit and I'll sort out the rest.' And he does. And my nose lives to fight another day.

Water babies....

I have started thinking about taking my bump on holiday. The lucky thing is getting two summer jaunts and I'm going to need to parade my semi-nude body in front of other people. That'll be interesting. Luckily, it'll only be close friends and randoms in Provence and then Mallorca, so I won't need to completely obscure my face - or stomach.
This was my train of thought, 'Ah, holiday soon, that'll be fun, chilling, relaxing, good food (except my favourite cheese and hams), and, ouch, my legs are a bit wobbly up top these days' So I started Googling 'pre-natal yoga'. There is one local class but it's at a really awkward time. Then I typed in 'pre-natal pilates'. Again, no joy there. Now I'm thinking water aeorobics, as it's low impact and high resistance - two concepts that sound very good in my book. So in theory, that is the body sorted. Now I just need to get off my expanding derierre and go to a class and I can tick it off my to do list.
Then I thought about the heat. I did a quick poll of Mummy friends, as I was wondering about the bump getting too hot in the sun. I already knew I wouldn't be roasting myself like Greece 2002, but apparently a bit of sun is good for the baby. The vitamin D will help it grow strong; plus, the tan will do wonderful things for my bumpy legs. I reckon distortion will be a fabulous trick if I don't make it to the pool for leg crunches and what not.
So the bump is ready for some fun! If I was writing one of my fashion articles, I might even go as far to say that a bump is the new It Bag in my world - and that of my friends. It is like a new, fun accessory that for once, cost nothing to procure. Although having spent five minutes on the John Lewis website I am beginning to realise that the ££££'s are just around the corner. Man, those buggies cost about the same price as I got for the old red Polo, RIP V742 EDX. This is going to be one lucky, comfortable, turbo-powered baby.

A bumpathon...

Today we celebrated Tarny Pop's 30th birthday with a wonderful summer garden party that quickly descend, via several slices of quiche and then chocolate cake, into some bumpy silliness. Here you will see five wonderful bumps. The boys (TP, left, and JM) are very nearly ready to pop and we wish them well for their respective deliveries.
Us three, well we are a trio of pregnancy. It is a hugely exciting sensation to know that you are in this with two of your best friends. Here we are, in descending bump order 27 weeks (TH) 19 weeks (AP) and 14 weeks (LH). We are on different journeys that are all heading towards the same exciting end. In the future, I know our babies will be friends. They will have to be. In a strange way, sharing this with friends helps to make the reality, more, er real.
You spend a while thinking about getting pregnant and knowing that'll mean a baby in the end. And then you get that positive pregnancy test, and it's still so abstract. You don't look different (except for, in my case, a pair of enormous....). Anyway, you spend the first 12 weeks trying to keep this thing alive and then you get to see it on a scan and you think, wow, that's a baby. Still though, it isn't exactly real. But then talking to friends, imagining how we will be mothers, alone and together, that makes its seem like a genuine possibility!
Clearly, judging by the photos, this is going to happen and it's going to be fabulous and fun and scary.
And we're friends doing it together. And that makes me feel better - I hope they feel the same way...
The boys.... mmm, I think they're beyond help.

Things that go bump in the night

Is it sad that today I aspire to be like Garfield? He always seems to sleep so well, whether or not he's in the dirty lasagne dish. I, on the other hand, am not sleeping well. I am not good when I'm tired, so you may notice that the tone of this post could, at a push, be described as grumpy, or terse, or just take-me-back-to-bed exhausted. You see, I fall asleep ok. No problems there. But then I wake in the middle of the night, and get strange thoughts in my mind. Twice this week I've been totally convinced that we've been entertaining a gaggle of burglers downstairs, although Darling Husband, after a quick scoot around the property, assures me it's all in my mind.
Poor husband. He tries so hard, and I wake him up so often. So what are the reasons for these stupid thoughts, strange dreams and general noctural unrest? Well, as with everything else in pregnancy, when the medical experts are at a loss for an explanation, they just cite hormones. One small word, a million different side effects.
So the hormones are officially making me go mad. Not during the day, I'm fine then, so please don't cancel plans with us, I won't start accusing you of stealing my hydrangeas. The craziness happens at night. I'm like a big, fat, pregnant werewolf. But obviously with less hair.
So that is the moan over. And here is the happy, warm-your-heart bit. Yesterday I had another midwife appointment. I actually met with the same one who conducted my first meeting, and I'm now crossing my fingers (in vain, clearly) that she'll be there for the big event too. She's so nice, and cuddly and laughs at my jokes. We did a little heartbeat listening. It was going nice fast, and the baby was moving around lots and sounding like it was having a very nice time in there.
Then, I got home and accidentally punched myself in the stomach. Don't ask. It involved a baked potato and some clumsiness. Anyway, I FREAKED OUT. But then the little Pullen Bear moved about as normal as I tried to concentrate on my work (and watch the women's semi-finals at Wimbeldon). So I'm feeling calmer now.
My dearest Mother also reassured me, saying that she fell on her bump, very publicly, and there doesn't seem to be too much wrong with the Bro Bro.
I also did a quick vox pop with friends and everyone, it seems, has had some bump bumps.
So I'm going to contain that worry again. It's hard, but I'm really trying to be level-headed these days. Although the same can't be said at night.