I've never been the most organised or "with it" person, but at this stage, things are getting ridiculous. I can barely string together a sentence, let alone make it anywhere.
I had an antenatal GP appointment the other day, the one, planned leaving-the-house venture that was in my diary for the whole week, and the only requirement was to show up with my maternity notes. I made it to the clinic but usefully left the maternity book at home and then forget my urine sample in the waiting area of the surgery. Classy.
I'm proud to say that when in the grips of a potential frenzied shopping disaster at my computer yesterday I restrained myself and bought "labour aids" instead of anything fun: a few aromatherapy oils from Neal's Yard because I've convinced myself that sniffing lavender oil will ensure I handle labour with grace and ease. Yeah, right.
If only my mental health were the only thing going. My body is falling apart as well. Lately, I keep on feeling like I'm starring in The Exorcist.
Lest you think I'm exaggerating, let me elaborate.
The other day, apropos of nothing, I ended up vomiting profusely over the toilet about eight times (Why!? Last time I checked, the first trimester's long gone). I Googled "vomiting at 39 weeks pregnant" and saw that several women had posted that it was a common sign of the early onset of labour, signalling the body trying to clear itself before the baby came out. In which case, I'll happily vomit every second. Unfortunately, considering I'm still pregnant four days later, I don't think I'm one of these women.
Also, lately, whenever I brush my teeth it's like a horror movie. Blood just pours from my gums and even though I reassure myself that this is perfectly normal and simply the result of inflammation due to pregnancy hormones, it's still pretty disgusting.
To top it all off, I still have acne, listless hair, dry, cracked lips and ezcema (hello, glow, where are you? I only have a week left!) and my belly is so distended-looking that it resembles the super-stretched goat skin you find on African djembe drums. My belly button has also completely popped out and there are angry-looking pink stretch marks in the area formerly known as my belly button piercing (and yes, I curse myself every day for that disaster and look forward to banning my teenage daughter from getting one by showing her my own horrifically disfigured battle scars).
Perhaps all of this explains why my partner looks at me with a mix of fear and horror every time I suggest we try to "speed this labour along" the old-fashioned way... and why he then flees from my presence. Wait, are bleeding gums, vomit breath, terrible skin, borderline psychosis and a mouth guard (the dentist gave me one of those when I went to get my gums checked) not a turn-on?
At any rate, I have a pineapple waiting as a back-up plan for when I hit week 40.