Currently lying on the sofa recovering from a very strenuous weekend.

I stayed up until 1am on Friday (1am!), then had my baby shower yesterday and finally topped it all off with a breastfeeding class today.

Luckily we didn’t have to get our boobs out at the latter (or the former, both of which would have been alarming to innocent bystanders).  We did, however, have to watch some videos of babies and their mothers trying to get the hang of breastfeeding, which I have to say did not make it look easy, unlike the patronising NHS video they show at the hospital where a smiling chav announces that she has now had the earth-shattering realisation that her “breasts are not for men.”  On the plus side, we were told that it is basically safe to drink alcohol whilst breastfeeding.  I almost wept with joy.  Until I realised that being drunk in charge of a baby was extremely inadvisable and might lead to a visit from social services.

Speaking of which, my friends landed me with the enviable task of getting the drinks in for the baby shower yesterday.  This was of course pretty easy, as it required nothing more strenuous than a couple of trips to Tesco (several, as obviously needed huge quantity).  However I could tell that the cashier was eyeing me with disgust, obviously thinking that I was off to spend the afternoon merrily consuming  eight bottles of Budweiser, washed down with two bottles of white wine and a couple of bottles of Cava.  I had been thinking that I could evade suspicion by simply pretending not to be pregnant, and just looking like I had eaten a heavy lunch of pasta and bread (lining the stomach in preparation for the afternoon’s drinking session), but apparently at eight months this is no longer the case, and I do in fact look like I am smuggling a whole other person under my dress which, of course, I literally am.  I also wasn’t factoring in the fact that most of the visitors to my baby shower had decided to drive (should not have told them about the secret parking places) so were not drinking, and we were out of orange juice within minutes while most of the alcohol remained unopened and is still sitting in my fridge.  *DO NOT TELL SOCIAL SERVICES.*

In other fun news, we now have a sweepstake for the birth date and weight of the baby.  I also may have to de-friend the person who suggested five kilograms as the weight.  I was baffled by what this might mean in real terms as I can only cope with pounds and ounces when it comes to the weight of humans, but I suspect it was about two stone.  THANKS FOR THAT.  On a more supportive note, relatively few people had me down as destined for an extra-long pregnancy in the manner of an elephant, so I am thankful for small mercies.  I am also now the proud owner of a selection of babygrows that have been artistically “embellished” by my friends with such slogans as “my mum made me wear this,” which will doubtless be the story of Little One’s life until he is at least twenty-three and can finally break away from the (i.e. “my”) maternal love of dressing your child as an animal in an attempt to educate him about what animals exist and how to recognise them.

Anyway, on that note I am off to eat some more of the leftover food from yesterday and gaze longingly at the leftover beverages.