Thirty-four weeks into pregnancy number one I was so ready for W’s arrival. Match-ready you might say.
The nursery was freshly painted, cot assembled, drawers filled with clean and neatly ironed baby-grows and blankets. I had bottles and breast-pumps at the ready, hospital bag packed and the delivery suite number on speed-dial.
Thirty-four weeks into pregnancy number two is an entirely different story.
The ‘nursery’ is currently a wasteland of old and new mattresses piled in a massive mattress mountain atop a partly dis-assembled bed. A mountain randomly strewn with leaflets issued by the midwife, yet to be read. Paint samples are splattered across one wall with names like ‘yellow daze’ and ‘lemon pie’ scrawled nearby…unclear as to which particular sample they refer to.
Drawers are overflowing and spilling their contents to the floor. Not baby-related contents. Mostly toiletries pilfered from hotel bathrooms and EVEN MORE LEAFLETS, also yet to be read. I know lurking within them I am also sure to find a manual for a device I do not remember owning, at least one key for a door I cannot possibly identify and a padlock…without a key. How do I know this? I just do.
The baby clothes we saved from when W was small are yet to be retrieved from the loft let alone washed or ironed. Likewise the Moses basket, bottles, sterilisers…the list goes on.
And yet despite knowing all of this I cannot bring myself to do anything about it.
So far my grand total of preparation for the arrival of number two has consisted of purchasing:
- One rabbit shaped comforter
- One pack of nappies
Yep…that is it.
What is wrong with me?
I am not like this. I am a born organiser.
I haven’t even made a list.
I LOVE lists. Normally.
My lack of organisational skill is not currently limited to the baby either. I am wearing maternity jeans with a hole the size, and oddly also shape, of Papua New Guinea. I have an alarming number of grey hairs and my fringe is rapidly approaching the end of my nose, and my toenails, although freshly painted, look as though they were painted by a three year old.
I am acutely aware of all of this yet the thought of trekking to the hairdresser fills me with a dread I cannot put into words and choosing women’s jeans is about my least favourite pastime even when I am not eight months pregnant and the size of a small country.
It is time I pulled myself together.
I am going to start a list.
Well maybe a list of the lists I need to make.
You’ve got to start somewhere right?
Please tell me I’m not alone. Were you match-ready for baby number two?
Disclosure: This post is brought to you in association with John Lewis however all words are my own.