The Waiting Game

It's a strange beast, this maternity leave business. 

Going from life at 90 miles an hour - marking all of the essays there were to be marked within a 10 metre radius of my right arm before the end of half-term, endless handovers of work responsibilities ('It'll be FIIIIIIINE!' *rigor-mortis grin*), packing boxes ('crap', 'stuff', 'crap stuff'), unpacking boxes ('Can 'crap stuff' go in the cellar?'), filling out horrifically complicated Belgian baby-related paperwork and welcoming the last influx of pre-baby house guests - to, well, not a right lot, really - is slightly surreal. I feel a bit like Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap, thrust from one life to another and not really sure who I am anymore. Remember Quantum Leap? I used to bloody love it, especially for that moment when he looked in a mirror and discovered he was elderly/black/disabled/a woman with really badly-applied lipstick. Yup, that's exactly who I feel like: a really, really tired Sam Beckett.  

Because of my due date (end of November) and the school year (I'm going back to work in September regardless of when the baby chooses to turn up), I could take maternity leave from the 'early' starting point of October half-term i.e. with four and a bit weeks still to go to D-day. In Belgium, this is hiiiiighly unusual - because paid maternity leave is so short, women get uber-competitive about how close they're working to their due date. But I figured keep it neat (my replacement starts afresh in a new half-term and finishes at the end of the school year) aaaaaand take what I'm entitled to, even if not all of that time is with the baby (or very well-paid). And everyone I know, particularly if that person is a woman with children, keeps saying, 'Oo, four and a bit weeks. Lovely.' And then more often than not she lowers her voice conspiratorially and adds, 'Make sure you enjoy it. Sleep a LOT', which would be wonderful advice if I didn't need a wee every three hours. 

So. After all of the moving madness I still have - in theory - two and a bit weeks to fill. I found myself ironing towels the other day and had to have a word. 'LIFE IS TOO SHORT TO IRON TOWELS,' I rebuked myself mentally. 'I spent too much time ironing towels' will not be one of my deathbed regrets. Too much time worrying, yes, or too much time ogling other people's fringes: such wastes of energy are sad, but also sadly unavoidable. Not ironing towels, though. 

That said, thought, I've realised the importance of having a structure to my day to help me not go completely nuts. This 'structure' is largely a self-imposed litany of minor and largely unnecessary daily labours involving tasks such as 'find somewhere that sells nipple cream' and 'order titre service cheques' (shite, haven't done that), but it helps my poor routine-needy brain. It also helps that it now takes nigh-on an hour to get myself dressed in the morning - the bodily manoeuvring and one-legged swivelling and grunting involved in pulling on leggings and socks is something quite special and oh, sweet Jesus, the Bio oil application, now there's a real treat. Perhaps I'll park that mental image there. 

Onto happier thoughts. New apartment! Behold some photo-snippets:

It's ground floor and therefore gorgeously gloomy early in the evening - I tell you, it's just crying out for a Christmas tree and fairy lights - ROLL ON DECEMBER. It's also stuffed to its impressively high ceilings with beautiful features like a corridor of exposed brick and supremely handsome internal doors and built-in alcove bookcases with downward lighting ohmyword. And the kitchen has open dark wood shelving and white metro tiles and stainless steel work surfaces LIKE WE LIVE IN SOME KIND OF SEXY MOJITO BAR. I'm completely, unashamedly in love with it.

Isn't that changing table (avec les flamingoes) darling? We renovated it! Grey satinwood paint, some fancy oilcloth and handles and a bit of spray glue goes a looong way. And that last photo makes my tummy flip. We're just waiting for you, baby. Not long now. Gulp.