About 27 weeks ago, over the Easter weekend, I got drunk. In fact, I think it was the night that one of my friends told me that getting drunk was a sure fire way to ensure I didn't manage to get pregnant (the first of many opinions I have had from various people about what pregnant women can and can't do).
27 weeks later I am sitting on my sofa in my apartment in Hong Kong, wondering whether I should email the aforementioned friend (he has since left Hong Kong) to tell him he couldn't habe been more wrong.
Although planned and much loved, pregnancy is not something I had aspired to. My work, marriage, sports and, well, a whole host of other things seem to be complicated by bringing a new being into my world. The boy (as my husband is known) had seemed to like the idea of having a child, but as one of my wise friends once said, men tend to look upon children as entertainment, they don't do maintenance.
Anyway, after a bit of convincing from blog minded friends, I thought I would start this as a record to my as yet unborn daughter as to what her mummy went through and how her early months and maybe years progressed.
Welcome to my inane rantings.
I think I might have had a cheeky ciggie that night too...
Analogies of a sort
1 week ago