Gosh, it’s been ages. Sorry. Still pregnant, just lazy. Still hungry, not really nauseated much. All good, I hope.

I finally met the midwife on Monday, and she’s lovely, and exactly what I wanted. Which is a great relief. I had to wait because at the time of my appointment she was at the hospital delivering her sixth baby of the day, but they called her and she said she could come over if I would hang around a bit. So I did my best to ignore the tummy rumbles and wished I’d thought to bring a wee snack, and eventually she showed up and all was fine. She’s very much the midwife school of “childbirth is a perfectly natural process that your body is built for, and women have been doing it for thousands of years” rather than having the OB viewpoint of birth as a surgical procedure. She announced, “I don’t like sewing,” which was her way of telling me that she won’t give me an episiotomy and will try to avoid my tearing at all. I likes the sound of that. But it’s still a hospital birth and I can have an epidural if I want one. At the next visit, I’ll ask her about rooming-in and lactation consultants and the like. I might even bring yer man, because it occurred to me that it would be nice if he met her at some time before I’m spreadeagled in a hospital with an alien trying to get out of me.

Next Monday marks the end of the twelfth week, as far as I’m concerned. (The doctors have me a few days behind my own calculations, as the seven-week sonogram measured small.) Which should mean we can tell people. We’re going to hold off telling them at home for a little longer, mostly due to logistics and people we want to tell first being in Vietnam just now, but I might tell them at work next week. Mostly becuase I keep sodding off early for this and that and it’s very unlike me. And last time I tried to submit a sick-leave notification for the three-quarters of an hour I took off to get to my OB appointment, my boss said “Point seven five of an hour? Pah. Don’t waste my ink,” and pot-shotted it into his bin. Which was very sweet, but I don’t really want him to think I’m taking advantage – and I’m clearly not sick. Also, one of the advantages to working in a university that has a lot of medical-type students is that I can get a free ultrasound any time I like. So I’ve booked one for next Tuesday, just to make ultra sure that everything’s going on as it should before we tell the famblies and my parents go into madly excited grandparent mode. (And they will be. I’m an only child. Of older parents. The heir is much anticipated but they’ve been very good and never mention it. Well, just the once.) On the other side, it’s the eighth grandchild so not so much of a ruckus, except everyone will still be excited that their baby brother is grown up enough to produce one of his own.

So I might tell my boss next week, before I sod off early once more. It seems only fair, even if perhaps it’s a bit odd to tell one’s boss that one is pregnant before telling one’s parents. But I have already told my best friend, because I am after all a girly girl.