The final countdown to D-Day. When suddenly everybody wants to know how your nipples are feeling and to give you their tip on how to get labour started (I hate pineapple, and I hate you for suggesting it).

The third trimester is the longest three (possibly longer) months you’ll ever face and everything hurts and who knew you could sweat from there and oh GOD get it out of me!!

I haven’t painted the best picture of pregnancy so far, having a shitty first trimester and a mostly shitty second trimester, I’ve not been the glowy earth mother embracing every bodily function, hormonal rush, or sprint to the toilet. In fact I’ve probably done more for birth control this year than Durex could ever hope to achieve.

I haven’t hated every minute, there’s been at least ten (not consecutive) minutes that I’ve enjoyed. Being able to wear skin tight clothes and not having to worry about the wobble, being allowed to demand an ice lolly at 7am, and mostly feeling the tiny life I’m growing moving around inside of me. Those bits don’t make up for the shitty bits, but they make them a little bit easier.

Currently I am essentially crippled. SPD is back and boy is it back with a vengeance. For those of you who don’t know this basically means the ligaments in my pelvis can’t cope with all the stretching and changing. Basically it feels like I’ve been kicked in the fanny by peak-era David Beckham wearing steel toe-capped boots. I cannot walk, I cannot roll over in bed, I cannot sit down…IT’S REALLY FUN GUYS! This is making life very boring and has pretty much guaranteed me the worst mother crown this half term (thank god for friends who are willing to add a child to their days out).

I have also been having near-constant braxton hicks since about 32 weeks. So after many ‘we’ll keep a close eye’s from the midwife and the worry of going in to early labour obviously I’m now pretty disappointed to still be pregnant at 38 weeks. But at least now I don’t have to feel guilty about trying everything to get. it. out.

So ways to get the labour started, there’s a fun conversation. There’s a million old wives tales and people (anyone – friends, family, Gladys from next door) love to give you their advice. It usually involves sex. Because nothing is sexier than a swollen, sweaty, angry woman who gets stuck trying to get out of bed. Pineapple is bollocks (and gross, see above), you’d need to eat like seven. Curry – I accidentally ate a dried ghost pepper the other week and nothing fell out. Nipple stimulation seems to make sense, trick your body into thinking you’re breastfeeding (which triggers contractions), sitting flicking your nipples for an hour at a time may seem a bit of an odd way to pass the time but desperate times. (I am 100% going to try this and will report back – you’re welcome)

I’ve got some new stretch marks too (which is funny, because I really firmly told them NO). Which despite everything has annoyed me a bit more than I expected it to. They’re mostly just slightly longer additions to the ones I already had (and honestly there’s like six new bits) but it’s still hard not to feel a little bit disheartened. I’m getting better at accepting changes to my body but I’m far from having it nailed yet.

It’s a really strange feeling wondering if everything you do will be the last time you do it as a family of three. Every time we say goodbye to a friend we know it’ll probably be the last time we see them without a new tiny person taking all the attention. We’re all so ready for this new addition though, it’s scary, because we’ve got the one-child family thing nailed (and the most well-behaved six year old that’s ever lived, what if this one won’t sit happily in a restaurant for five hours?!), but it’s bloody exciting! I can’t wait to meet the person who’s been causing me pain, discomfort, illness, and enforced sobriety for the last 9 and a bit months.

The third trimester is a weird time, especially once you hit 37 weeks. It’s all a waiting game from here and every twinge, weird kick, and pain is treated with complete suspicion (and then a whole heap of disappointment when they stop). Don’t tell me to make the most of sleep, don’t tell me to take it easy, don’t tell me I’ll miss it soon. Pregnancy has been a shit, and I’ll soon be moaning about sleepless nights, but they cannot come soon enough!

How many months until I conveniently forget all this and start begging Matt to put another baby in me do we reckon?!

(Quick reminder that we will announce when baby arrives and texts that say in any way ‘is the baby here yet’ will ensure you are the last on the list to be told. We will also put said announcement on social media when we decide to – if you get told first then you’re lucky and it means we love you, don’t spoil our moment. We want to see if we can get more likes than our pregnancy announcement…)

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