I'm at that point in pregnancy where strangers eye me up to gauge whether I'm just fat or actually up the duff. Either way they look disapproving - even if they realise that I am growing a womb fruit, they probably assume I'm only about seventeen as ol' Babyface Monkey here still gets asked for ID at the age of twenty-seven. I'm kind of looking forward to the beached whale stage, if only because I can silence most people with a pregnant glare, groan or sigh, I get to eat like it's always Saturday on the Butterfield Diet and I can properly freak out my friend Jack by showing him Alien-esque protrusions when baby sticks an elbow out of my belly. Right now, I'm meant to blooming, but I am developing a waddle and my son insists on flashing my stomach to any and every passer by to tell them about his soon-to-be little brother or sister. Except sometimes he gets confused and tries to show them a boob instead. And once he said it was an egg. We're working on teaching him the logistics.
Oh... and 'baby brain' has hit with a vengeance. I spent a solid five minutes trying to unlock the front door to collect a package from the postman the other day, shouting apologies through the letterbox and desperately explaining that something was stuck, feeling like a douche. I was just about to go around the back, cursing the price of locksmiths when I noticed that I had actually been trying to repeatedly LOCK an already locked door. I put the cereal in the fridge yesterday morning. I've been convinced it is Tuesday for about five days - except for Tuesday, when I thought it was Monday.
A friend told me that if you don't have enough Omega-3 in your diet then the baby basically steals it from your brain. No shit. You eventually regain your original levels but it takes a long time - which probably explains the fuzzy-headed-doofusness of my brain since I had baby #1. I admit, I haven't been eating enough oily fish - or much fish at all for that matter, or walnuts or flaxseeds and whatever else has Omega-3 in it - and not to panic-buy shares in Omega-3 supplements or anything, but I thought it might be a good idea to get some in my fucking face as soon as humanly possible before this parasite destroys my brain. I really have been struggling to write and/or edit lately. My weekly short stories and flashes have dwindled to once-a-month. My editing has ground to a halt. I find writing a lot like exercise - the less you do, the less energy and stamina you have to kickstart yourself again, but as soon as you make an effort you can't get enough of the endorphins and crazy-writer-hormones (technical term) that make you want to do it all day and all night.
Let's leave that exercise analogy at the doorstep, however, because I certainly haven't been doing too much of that either... But today I DID do some editing. Four whole chapters in fact. Only about 8000 words and I still managed to get lost in my manuscript. And I don't mean lost as in 'swept away by the mesmeric prose', but more 'where the fuck was that red highlighted section telling me to do something important? Oh, look, that character swears a lot in this chapter. Hmm, maybe I should change her name to Hannah. La la la, that bartender has a really shitty expression on his face every time he looks at me - maybe it's because I only ordered a 65p lime soda instead of an expensive organic beer. Can't he see I'm pregnant? Oh, no, I've got a massive t-shirt on. He probably thinks I'm fat and is judging me because I just ordered chips. At least I didn't ask for extra cheese. Fuck him, I can drink lime sodas if I want to drink lime sodas. What? Oh, editing, right. Chapter four...'
Need. Fish. Oil. STAT.