Dear Bump, there’s not a lot left to know about you. We know your sex and now, according to your mum, you have ears. To which, all I can say is: could you listen to your mum and stop knocking lumps out of her at all hours of the day. I’m starting to think you’ve got RockBand: The Uterus Version with the amount of thrashing about you’re doing in there. I mean play fair, your mum stopped using the home ultrasound kit listening to you after I pointed out that you were a baby and not an internal iPod (not that she had the headphones on a lot or anything) so return the kindness.
Having said that, I wonder if you’re doing morse code and asking your mum to change the channel on TV because – even though you’ve only existed for five or so months – you’re hearing all the same jokes from the constant reruns of Friends on E4 that your mum has on as background noise kinda constantly. (Not that the show is on much but the six characters are pretty much screenburnt into the TV now. Kinda strange watching Troy and wondering why the ghosts of Chandler and Joey are flanking Brad Pitt into battle.)
I swear if your first words are “he was on a break” there’s going to be issues…
Dear see-you-in-May Bump, whatever one is releasing into your mother’s bloodstream just now could you stop? She’s being a tad grumpy and I’m crashing with your sister tonight because of it – if I thought the womb had room, I’d come in and annoy you.
For this, you’re getting called Zanzibar. Or couch, ‘cos that’s certainly what I associate you with mostly at the moment.
Dear Bump, as it gets tedious writing about your mum heaving and your pic made the global appearance via Twitter (cute nose, big head, not at all camera shy, legs, toes and fingers all present), there’s not much to say about you just now, you crazy developing ball of cells you.
Apart from one thing – and if you knew morse code I would pass this on – you won’t be called Poppy. I quite liked it when the name popped into my head – I still do – but it’s been pointed out that it’s more of a kid’s name than an adult name. I dunno, I think it sounds quite quirky and happy, eccentric and bohemian, things I would love you to be.
But it’s not to be. One thing is for sure though: would really suck for your name if you’re a boy (and more on the bets over that issue another night).
Of course, at least we haven’t gone down the path of what we did with your big sister…not yet anyway.
You’ve been quiet the last few days and your mum has even managed to keep the last few meals down (God bless pasta bakes) though the bedroom windows remain open, freezing me to death (still at least it gets me off the couch).
But I hope you’re looking your best tomorrow and you’ve combed your genes and forming veins to look good because you’re getting your second scan complete with pic and so on. I think your sis had four pics taken off her (I always said I was shocked her first words weren’t ‘”bloody papparazzi” or that along with the afterbirth there was a note for the Press Complaints Commission moaning about intrusion) so let’s see if we can beat that.
In the meantime just keep doing that cell dividing and growing thing. And hope you’re enjoying the pasta.
And yes, even though it’s way too early, I know for a fact I’ll ask “do you know what sex it is?” because Dads do that. And it’s never too early to start scaring boys away.
Good little developing thingy. Not only are you now, according to the little iPhone app I have, made it as far as the size of a peach, you also let your mum keep a full dinner down – and seconds.
For that have an extra gulp of amniotic fluid or whatever it is you do in there to chill when you aren’t too busy dividing cells and stuff.
(or perhaps I’m just a damn good cook. Anyway, like your big sister, mum can now expect pasta bake non-stop for months.)
Children, I’m telling you both right now: expect this at some point as a birthday event: rice crispies used to make party sushi.
And here’s a pic.
Dear Bump, a weekend of making your mum ill. You are most likely going to be the fittest child ever at this rate (going by the old theory of ‘the sicker the pregnancy* the healthier the child’).
Two things are also quite apparent from this: your dad certainly won’t be fit and you may get called Arthur as in arthuritis (or the more common spelling of arthritis) from the spinal damage I’m getting sleeping on spare beds, couches and your big sister’s bed because you’re playing havoc with your mum’s body temperature.
Anyway, goodnight Arthur.
* I don’t think that means watching all the Saw films.
Dear Bump, right chuck it. It’s a bad day when even I’m feeling sorry for the wife. Stop making your mum this sick or it’s the naughty womb for you (what? I can hardly send it to the naughty step or anything else can I? What would the equivalent threat be? “Right, off the pancreas for you”?)
Either that or judging by “the sicker the mum is, the fitter the child” you’re going to be an Olympic gold winner and astronaut all before you’re 14. If you pull that off, we’ll call it quits on how ill you’re making your mum.
(oh and lesson learned. No matter how casual a joke you think you’re making when you say it. “By Christ, this pregnancy’s taking it’s toll on you” is never a line that will endear you to the other half.)
Dear Bump, when the sperm that made you was part of me you may have heard me think that your mum could do with losing a few pounds. It’s the only way I can rationalise the amount of vomiting you’re putting her through.
Stand down soldier, you don’t have to do anything to impress me. Just turn up in one piece and that will do, so leave off your mum and let her keep some food down please. French toast is hardly a luxury food and she’s got enough to worry about just now, thinking about if she should get the H151 jab or not, worried about what it might do to you.
And besides, on the food front, I’m dying to go out for a decent curry.
This may seem practically luddite but something I won’t be doing here – well, not deliberately often at any rate – is posting a lot involving my children’s names , schools, pictures and so on. I don’t even do a lot of it on Facebook.
The main reason is that I think online should be their place to go onto and discover as and when they want and it’s not up to me to put them online: they should have the ability to decide how much (and if) they want to be online. In the meantime I still get to blog about them and the people who know them – grandparents and so on who can’t do Facebook – can still check in here from time to time.
(it reminds me of a chat I had with Warren Ellis around the time Matt Fraction had his kid and we differed on revealing so much online. Warren felt that the sheer quantity of stuff put out by parents and others would swamp anything that prospective employers and so on might find, while I felt data mining would get better and besides, it was the kid’s choice as to how much was online anyway.)
All of which does beg one question: when this generation grows up, how are they going to take parents having posted chunks of details about their lives online? Even worse, there will be intimate details of their parents online…
Dear Bump… would you please be so kind as to stop making my wife and your current transport carrier so sick and temperature spiking so that I can get back into bed and stop sleeping on the couch, spare bed or cuddling your big sister until she falls asleep and end up nodding off myself.