After being the only parents at the childbirth education class to have absolutely nothing prepared for the oncoming baggage (everyone else had, I quote, everything prepared), I've spent the past two weeks buying shit. Mostly because I have now reached the point where, on meeting me, strangers involuntarily cry out in shock, or alternatively eye my stomach thoughtfully and pronounce me "ready". (Pretty much all conversations now are held with my belly. It's mesmerising, I guess.)
People have also started asking if I've packed my hospital bag (er, must get on that…) and what my birth plan is.
Are you kidding me? The plan is to have the child. That's it. What more do they think I have any modicum of control over?
So, yes. Money flying out the door, even though I'm doing a lot of second-hand purchasing. And all of it on stuff that is really, genuinely, not in the least exciting.
Well, except the stuffed rats I bought for the cot.
I really, really love the stuffed rats.
I call them The Alonsi.1 I imagine they are already whispering among themselves of which particular pieces of rattish wisdom to impart first.
- We are not allowed pets in the new flat. Since I am very deep in pet-deprivation yearning, when we spotted a very plump rat scampering through the front garden, I promptly named it Alonso. You make do with what you have. [↩]