It is March 2018.
I have not written in this blog for a very long time.
I virtually abandoned it, or any pretext I had that I could sustain the blog in any kind of meaningful way.
I look at my desk and the gazillions of beauty and skincare products I have not used with a kind of dispassionate indifference.
My nails are brittle and varied in length. My skin is dry to the point of flaking. My beauty routine is a thing of the past.
It has been almost seven months. I could have made the time. I could have summoned up the energy to take better care of myself. Maybe. But I doubt it.
I am not entirely sure of the cause of this lapse. It could be the fact that my amazingly gorgeous daughter is now two years old and made up of energy. It could be my depression, which I seem incapable of managing particularly well. Or it could be the fact that the day before my daughter turned two, I found out that I was pregnant.
I am now 31 weeks pregnant with another baby girl in a harrowing, and decidedly final pregnancy. Not just final because I am 40, but because (and little baby, if you ever read this, don't take it personally) this pregnancy has been worse than horrible.
It started out with being constantly tired and having endless, unstoppable nausea and vomiting (hyperemesis gravidarum) for which I needed to be medicated. Then came my booking in appointment with the midwife (I was late for the first one as I made a mistake with the time - the second one, she was 2.5 hours late for). It was a disaster. it took ages and I cannot count the number of risk factors I seemed to have. I was told I needed to self-inject heparin daily and take aspirin too. I would be considered high risk because of my age, weight, and history with Angelica and would be treated as if I had gestational diabetes because I had it with Liora.
According to my hospital, that meant being ignored to the point of threatening to complain to the NHS before any appointments were made for scans etc, being neglected by my designated midwife, who I have yet to meet, and my daughter, and therefore my husband being banned from entering the room where I have had my scans done. Literally less than minimum care. I may as well not have bothered to tell them I was pregnant at all. Thankfully this kid moves regularly because until she started to I was losing my mind.
This is the opposite of the amazing care I got through Barnet hospital when I was pregnant with my two-year-old. When they say it is a post-code lottery, they are not joking.
Now my symptoms include tiredness, low mood, anxiety, nausea (now only occasional), heartburn, round ligament pain, spd pain, back pain, basically 24 hour all over pain. (and I need to pee every 5 minutes)
I am never doing this again. And this baby better be frickin' cute.
She is due in May and I cannot wait to meet her and introduce her to her big sister. I am terrified that the pregnancy will go wrong. I am terrified that the girls will not get along (I was really badly bullied by my sister) and I am worried that I won't be have the same level of patience or devotion or won't be good enough for the second one. I want to be a good mother but I have self esteem issues so I always doubt myself.
Deep down I know I will adore this little girl and dote on her as I did her sister, but my brain niggles, so here I sit, kicking baby within, pouring my guts out onto this blog for all to see.
Wish me luck. I have 8-ish weeks to go and hope it will go fast, but somehow, I get the feeling it will be the longest 2 months of my life.
Good night. I need to go get my Gaviscon.
