I am currently the poorliest preggo in all of the land and i’m not really poorly because i’m preggo, (I am appreciating all of your messages,) I’m poorly due to a delicious bout of the flu. The flu is always a fun little tango to side step to even when you’re not 8 months pregnant. Yet when you have an ‘about to pop out of your vagina’ baby in your belly, a very active 2 year old, a life to enjoy, a household to run and a distinct lack of sleep, whilst being SOBER…you find that the flu is a bit of a buzz killington.
I swear on my life, I’m certainly one to swagger off an illness with a struttish pride of ‘i’m fine, i’m fine.’ I’m someone who makes mountains out of molehills, yet when i’m in really trouble or in real pain, i pretend i’m not with a ‘shrug.’ But this time and because i’ve literally felt so hideous, I have rolled out the pity party. Vicks Vapor Rub ain’t gonna make this baby better. I’m laid on the god damn sofa, in a blanket, in my eyelashes, weeping and moaning because every single inch of my body aches, from the very top of my head, to the very end of my tippy toes. It doesn’t even feel like an ache. It feels like murder. I can’t breathe. I can’t hear. I can’t move my legs. I can’t taste my food. I can’t function without painkillers. I’m short tempered. I have a heavy bump. I back kills. My hearts pounding. I could go on…I can’t even sit up without getting room spin. AND I have a comedy dead arm from a whooping cough vaccine that I had to have the other day, to save my upcoming bambino from suffering the dreaded illness. I’m falling to pieces. I mean, I can’t believe i’ve managed to get through my entire pregnancy without ONCE being ill and just at 8 months, before the big old ‘heave-ho’ i’m knocked off my block with a Gladiator whammy stick and now forced to be a slave to the flu.
I was doing so well. I mean I had traded my nipple tassles in for my ‘Susie Homemaker’ apron. (My Hollywood friends cannot believe that i’m a wife again and a mum. I’m a cocktail sipping wink to them, so it worries hem shitless to hear that i’m hoovering and washing dishes.) The other day I was making salmon hand rolls for crying out loud and hanging washing on the line. That may not seem like much to you, yet I have NEVER IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, hung washing on the line. I’d been doing so well that even Keiran couldn’t believe his eyes. He was all proud and happy that I was finally the wife he always wanted. Then the flu got me and a big ‘ah fuck it.’ Now i’m wrapped in blankets, half deaf and with a snotty nose.
Last night, he kept cuddling me and telling me how beautiful I was, how much he loved me and how much he adored me being his wife. It made me feel good, as when you’re a dying fluey mess, it’s good to have someone think you’re beautiful. However the evening before he attempted to make me feel better by feeling me up. That doesn’t make fluey girls feel better. Helping them do the mundane jobs around the house does. Like i’d much prefer a hand with Baby Ruby, then him trying to wedge his fingers in my vagina.
He’s been working a lot recently and the rest of the time has been spent playing golf, so i’ve been left to my own devices to get better by myself. Luckily, I have a GREAT MUM, who always comes to my rescue. She left work yesterday afternoon to come and check in on me and take care of me. She even came with antibiotics. But women naturally know how to be helpful. Men get confused don’t they and well they don’t enjoy to see their wife dying on the sofa and simply because it means their tea probably won’t get made. I mean, he’s being lovely and ever the sweetheart and telling me i’m beautiful, but he’s still young and has a lot to learn about women and relationships. (Like when you have a fluey and very pregnant wife, you don’t ever ask her to give you a back massage and you don’t ever call her and tell her to iron your trousers for golf. 🙂 ) But at least he’s learning and we’re getting there. I’d rather him come in from work give ME a back massage, sort take out for dinner, or even get it on his way home and THEN call me beautiful. 🙂 He hasn’t thought of that yet. Plus, men don’t get that women don’t want to be asked, we just want you to use your own iniative and perform. I don’t want to hear, ‘Baby do you want me to rub your back?’ When you’re secretly hoping that i’ll say ‘no.’ I think men should just walk in and tell you that they’re going to rub your back for you because you’re ill and pregnant. Y’know, take charge. Then tell you that they’ve organized food for the evening. Instead of asking what you want, or even worse, what you’re making them!! Hideous. In the same way that men like women to be women. Women enjoy men to be men, not little boys. We much prefer grown up men, who can thunder forward with a sense of internal security. We like you to be helpful, at the same time as telling us you adore us.
I couldn’t have felt any worse today. I’m filled with illness and it sucks hairy balls. I am completely on my last legs and need all the help I can get. It just feels as though nothing is lifting this flu away. It’s awful.
LUCKILY, whilst dying and enjoying #TOWIE re-runs, there was a knock at my patio doors. The postman, in his neon (bless him) was a knocking with a smile. He saw me in my blankets, laid on the sofa and started shouting ‘wakey wakey’ at me. Cheeky bastard. Hellloooo? I’m dying.
Anyway, I smile and swiftly open the glass doors to snatch my giant parcel and sign off on it.
All I’m gonna say is, nothing is better than feeling utterly rubbish and then receiving a giant parcel which just so happened to filled with an enormous amount of naughty goodies. Loads of them. I’m so impressed. It brought a smile to my face and a leap to my step. How lovely and how generous! I can’t tell you anything about it, or what was in my parcel, just yet. But I can tell you that they were freebies from a great company, a big company, who i’m completely impressed by! I LOVE MY PARCEL. I’m such a material girl. I’ll moan in a blanket about how shit I feel and then leap up with delight when there’s a parcel full of freebies presented to me. I guess what I can say is that Keiran’s a lucky boy, as I was given truck loads of outfits (that I did actually request) that will ‘wa-woo’wee’ him in the bedroom, as an extra special side treat, alongside the rest of the stuff. He’ll be impressed and simply because the last time I dressed up, I wore a sailor girl suit for him he couldn’t at all contain himself , to the point where he partied in his pants TWICE in a row, within seconds. He got that into it. It was fun. 🙂
I’m not sure if he’ll save them for after the baby or need to enjoy them straight away? I’m not sure that bending me over anything, in any suit would be easy right now, especially when sex might end with me being in labour a a human venturing out of my ‘hoo-haa.’ We’ll see. 😉