Dear Tangy
I fell in love with you the moment you were conceived and when I held you in my arms for the first time that love burst in a way I never thought possible. Looking at your beautiful face, so often brings tears to my eyes. I can’t believe that God gave you to me to look after. My miracle. My little bundle of loveliness: a perfect symbol of the love shared between the beings who created you. I could spend hours watching your facial expressions and I try to imprint them on my mind so that I won’t forget. I am mesmerised by your big, inquisitive eyes and I am already addicted to our chats about life and to telling you stories of fantastical worlds, creatures and adventures. I want to protect you and cuddle you and adore you eternally. Tangy, I love you and I promise to be the best mom that I can be.
Devoted to you
Mommy
So, was it as bad as I thought it would be? Yes with a capital Y. Oh the pain! Dear Diary, here is my Labour story:
It’s happened. Two weeks early – WTF? I thought first babies were supposed to be late! I had ‘a show’ this morning at 7am and water has been trickling out all day. No waterfalls or gushing. It’s now 9pm and still no contractions. If nothing happens naturally by 8am tomorrow morning I will be induced. Whilst sitting on the toilet this morning as water leaked out my vag, I thought that it would probably be a good idea to write down my birth plan in my antenatal notes, as I was meant to do some weeks back; I remembered that my flat looks like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb and that I would need to clean; I have also done no ‘nesting’ – the baby’s crib is still sitting in a box. Then I got excited about the idea of taking my baby girl to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. Woopee! Time for a pad – can’t sit on the toilet all day. 
The big 37 week mark has come and gone: my baby girl is fully grown and if she is born any time from yesterday she will be considered a full-term baby, not prem. Awesome. Her head is getting ready to ‘engage’ and I have put together a vague semblance of a birth plan (involving no epidural – I do consider myself quite insane) that I still need to write down in my antenatal book. Note to self: write down birth plan. Other than that I am still shitting – no changes there. I have had very few ‘baby dreams’ of late, other than one significant dream that certainly makes up for the lack. I had a dream that I was in labour for what seemed like ever and when I eventually gave birth, my baby looked like a miniature H.R. Geiger Alien but cream-coloured rather than black. I remember being a little scared of the baby but I still loved it, which, hopefully, is an indication that if I breed a mutant I will still love it. So that’s good news. 
You have accompanied Mom and Dad on many concert adventures this year in our ongoing quest to see our favourite bands, and you will thus be born into the world as a real ‘metal baby’. Naturally, we will not dictate your music choice – unless boy bands and Beyonce (now block that name from your mind) appear on the list. Okay, so maybe we will be a little bit dictatorial. In fact, whilst waiting in the queue to watch 30 Seconds To Mars last night your Dad and I had an argument about who will accompany you to concerts if the bands you like are ‘lame’ (in our expert opinion of course). Your Dad says that there is no way that he is going with you to a Britney Spears or Atomic Kitten concert (now block those names from your mind) but here’s a little piece of advice: your Dad already refers to you as his Amelia and if you just bat your eyelids he will accompany you to whatever show you like (don’t tell him I told you). I am happy to take you to see ‘lame’ bands as long as you pay for my ticket. Little Tangy: the essential point is that we just want you to love music as much as we do. And we can’t wait to tell you about all of the fun you had in my tummy as you succumbed to the comfort of your amniotic fluid and the vibrations of double-bass drumming whilst Mom and Dad lived some dreams. Here’s a morsel to keep you satiated in the meantime: 
A month today … or earlier … or later – who knows? CRAP! The uncertainty is killing me. I just want to get this giving birth thing out of the way. I am feeling petrified and paranoid. Petrified of the pain and paranoid that something will be wrong with my baby girl. If I am completely honest with myself, I think that I will be able handle a deformed baby but I can’t handle a retarded one. The ‘what if’ game is seriously dangerous but I find myself playing it irrespective. One minute I am excited to meet my daughter and the next minute I am thinking about brain damage, down’s syndrome, episiotomies and third-degree tears. 
Yesterday was our last scan appointment. The scanographer said it looks like my wonky umbilical cord is not impeding Amelia’s growth so there is no need for any more scans. I am most glad because I do not like being gelled-up and poked with that proboscis-on-a-cord-thing but I will miss seeing our baby girl on live TV. The coolest part of yesterday’s scan was seeing Amelia’s little skull and face, and her hair. Warren and I had a ‘debate’ about the size of her lips later in the day: he says they are small, I say they are lusciously pouty – I guess we will find out in five weeks. Yes Diary! FIVE WEEKS. It’s pure madness. 
Dad and I have come up with the coolest nickname for you. And it has stuck for two weeks, which means that it is a keeper. At your 32 week scan, the Scanographer confirmed that even though I have a wonky umbilical cord, you are looking beautiful and are growing very well. As usual, we received a report that shows a number of measurements; each based on a scale that represents the mean values for babies – the report shows where you sit for each of those measurements. According to the report, you have a rather large belly and long arms, which Daddy and I found it hysterically funny because it made us both think of monkeys. So now you have a new nickname: Tangy – short for Orangutan. Your Uncle Alastair looks kind of like an Orangutan and he even has what we like to call the ‘red gene’, so maybe you will look like him. I can’t wait to find out!
I am so not a diary person. I tried to keep a diary when I was in high school because it was the cool thing to do at the time and I had probably been watching too many episodes of Dawson’s Creek – yes dear diary, I watched Dawson’s Creek with the unashamed vigour of a thirteen-year-old. Sadly, unlike Joey Potter, I had nothing to say and the whole exercise bored me very quickly. But now, fourteen years later, I’m back. Here’s why: I have this insane idea that the next time I am seven weeks away from pushing a baby out of my vag I will look back on my ‘Dear Diary’ entries for some words of wisdom. Okay … I am now laughing at myself. Wisdom? NEXT TIME? Yup. It’s true. I am certifiable. To my future self: there will be no words of wisdom but I do promise to keep it real – that is something I am good at. 
