Monday, November 26, 2007

Pregnancy Pitfalls

One of the delightful "symptoms" of pregnancy that no-one tells you about beforehand (unlike morning sickness and piles) is the general lack of braincells one encounters as an expectant mother. I swear, my offspring eats braincells for breakfast. This not only results in a memory to rival an elderly amnesiac's and a tendency to make many, for want of a better word, "blond" utterances, but also an frighteningly extreme clumsiness.

A week in the life of a pregnant woman: (this actually all happened in one week, although I haven't had a week this bad since)

Monday: Think I am being a wonderful housewife by taking my mother's advice and opening all the windows this morning to get that wonderful autumn breeze inside and the stale winter smell outside. While chatting on the phone to a friend, I realise too late that I should have moved the vase my mother-in-law gave us from in front of the open window first (pregnant women are omitted from the common sense gene) and it smashes to the ground. Oooops. Freudian slip methinks?

Tuesday: After Monday's fiasco, decide not to use mine and hubby's brand new and lovely hand painted dinner service just to defrost chicken breasts in the microwave. Instead, somewhat misguidedly choose and "old" plate that happens to belong to my mother-in-law. (Are you seeing a pattern? She does live with us, I've not gone out of my way to visit her to borrow a plate.) Upon removing the slimy fillets from the microwave, I get that slow-mo feeling as the plate slips from my grip and crashes against the tiled floor. I was able to salvage the chicken with a quick wash, and thank god I didn't break any of the tiles, but MIL's plate was only fit for the bin.

Wednesday: Had an extra cautious day. Didn't let my guard down once.

Thursday: Another of MIL's plates bit the dust. Freud would love me.

Friday: Went food shopping with mum, asked her to remind me to get tartar sauce for HID as a treat on his fish fingers that evening. (Gosh I'm such a gourmet whiz). We forgot, and I rushed back for a jar when at the checkouts, I felt it was that integral to the meal. When making said meal, I spend time looking for the jar that I had earlier "hidden" (as I said, the memory's not up to much), which was actually perched precariously on top of the tins I was surveying and removing from the cupboard. As I chose the tin with the jar on top, I did not notice it's extra weight and spun round to put it down beside me to continue searching. The jar, unsupported, thus launched across the kitchen and smashed into splinters and mush on the tiled floor. HID heard me cry out in frustration, as we now had no sauce, and came to my rescue. He remarked later (with me in a less murderous state of mind) that it looked as though I had deliberately thrown the jar, as it was miles from the cupboard I was looking in. He still doesn't understand how it happened. He didn't even ask if I needed help, he just cleaned up the gooey mess then and there, I was in no fit state to attempt it. (Blame that on the hormones). We make do with ketchup for our fish fingers.

Saturday: Find a jar of tartar sauce I'd bought ages ago in the back of a different cupboard. Give me strength!

Grown.

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