I don’t know what is more unnerving – the fact that little L has missed her due date and that every passing day brings me closer to the whole drip-epidural-induction-nightmare; or people that keep on calling, texting and commenting on the fact that my belly is still occupied territory.
‘Where is little L?’, ‘L?’, ‘Is she still in your tummy?’ and ‘Isn’t she a bit late?’ to mention just a few considerate questions I receive. Daily. My favourites were this week’s comments on how high up my belly still was (‘too high to go into labour anytime soon’), and that Braxton-Hicks contractions would indicate another 4 weeks of pregnancy to come. I would be 45 weeks pregnant by then, how sensational!
You can tell I've been married to a Scotsman for too long -- I get excited about anything that's free.
So when I found a memo from the school crumpled up on the bottom of Alexandra's book bag advertising a parenting class aimed at parents with reception children dealing with transition, I signed up.
And I'm VERY glad I did.
It had been ages since I'd read anything on emotional support for five-year-olds. When my first was born, I devoured every available book. After having three children in quick succession, the parenting books are replaced by Dr. Seuss (the former are in a box in the attic gathering dust.)
