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To the midwife today, to continue my long-standing hobby of startling medical professionals with the lowness of my blood pressure. Despite a brisk walk from the river (the birth centre really needs more parking), I had a diastolic of 40 this morning. For those unfamiliar with medical terminology, 40 is basically zero and means my heart isn’t even trying.
My midwife, impressed, tactfully informed me I suck at pregnancy. Kinda knew that already, but at least she said it nicely – apparently I have a “delicate system” that “doesn’t adapt well” to the strain of gestation. I have ample hips and linebacker shoulders; being called delicate is gratifying regardless of context. But still.
In happier news, since finding out the baby is a boy I’ve been inspired to start sewing. Current haul is one tiny tweed waistcoat, one tiny tweed hat to match, one tiny velvet waistcoat and two cut-out-but-not-yet-sewn onesies. And today after my midwife appointment I dragged my 90/40 self around three fabric shops and came out with a billion snap fasteners, two lots of ribbing, a pleasing grey remnant with which to make yet another tiny waistcoat, some pale brown poplin out of which to construct a hasty drawstring maternity skirt, pale green velour for a onesie and some remarkably cheap white fake fur, because why bother having a son if you can’t dress him up as the Abominable Snowman? Such fun. I’d forgotten what tiny quantities of fabric newborn clothes need; it feels terribly frugal.
Also? I made tweedy hats for the Big Pigs as well.