April 12: Blog in a bog

Bollocks. How exactly do you get good at this blog stuff? Found out the other day that my one exciting comment from a mystery 'RH' was actually my friend - with the initials 'RH'. Not the sharpest of cookies, am I? I bounded (as much as a seven-month pregnant lady can bound) into her living room, said, 'Oooooohhhh, you never guess what. I had a COMMENT! On my blog! From an RH!'
And she said: 'Uhh, yeh! That was me.'
Oh, the fool, the fool.
But at least she's reading it! And likes it. Or is that what friends are for? I've politely asked, via email, two quite well-established bloggers to add me to their blog roll. But they must have confused it with a similar sounding roll as they haven't done so far. I asked the local Mumsnet organiser to add me too but she says I have to add myself which sounds a bit scary. Self-promotion? All fine as a back-hander. But I'm too British to be overt about it.
So there we go. A blog, a languishing blog. A lost, languishing blog. Blog in a bog.

On the upside, Bump is bigger. Well, in fact, at my scan this morning, his head had grown marginally. And his stomach, enormously. He now has a Chris Moyles bacon-bap paunch (with a small head).
I wiped the sticky gel off my belly, and said: 'Why's that then?'
And my consultant with her off-beat wacky sense of humour, said: 'Well, if I put on weight, it doesn't go to my head, does it? It goes to my tummy. Or we would all have very big heads.' Ha ha ha.
So at least all the cakes (I had four welsh cakes yesterday) are doing Bump good. If not my arse.
Also decided I need to start referring to Bump as a 'she' to get me ready for the fact she may just be a girl. So from now on, Bump will be Bumpette.
Had my ante-natal class on Saturday too.
Honestly, I didn't think you could find a more clueless first-time mother than me but believe me, they're out there.
One said: 'If I'm having a water birth, then I need an epidural, can I go back into the water after I've had it?'
The midwife (a fun, leisure-centre instructor type with straight shiny hair) said: 'Luv, you will be numb. That means you won't be able to walk. There's no way I'm dragging you back into a pool.'
Another piped up: 'I'm very keen to have an epidural. When do I tell the doctors I want one? Can I book it in now?'
The midwife did well with this one. She said: 'Hmm, perhaps you should wait until the onset of labour?' Which didn't seem to go down well.
Then, and this was the worst part, the gas and air was passed around for people to try it out like some weird party game.
'Here, suck on this. It will make your head spin.'
At least twenty people tried it - mostly blokes. All sucking away on the same pipe and then passing it on. Whatever happened to hospital hygiene? I was waiting for them to ask us to put our car keys in a bowl too.
As for Father-to-be, don't ask. Bleurgh. Tired of talking about it. Suppose it has become some awful millstone of a soap opera around my neck. Like some heavy-weight choker dog-collar that has chained me up. One moment, he is gung-ho to tell more family members, try and persuade his parents to his cause, make a go of it with Bumpette and I as a happy family; then it's back to the same old story, that 'Bumpette is forbidden' in his culture (presumably so is shagging women out of wedlock but that didn't stop him). God, if I hear that this child is 'forbidden' one more time...... Will he still be saying it when she is 16 and dying her hair purple? Will it be on her gravestone? Here lies Bumpette. RIP. Forbidden.