I always assumed you’d be late. Nothing, I must say, to do with a genetic inheritance from your maternal grandmother, who is forever arriving amid of a flurry of timely intentions usurped by heartfelt apologies, but rather a consequence of differing due dates and the seemingly inevitable delay first babies inflict upon their eager parents. Patience is a virtue, they say, but virtuous isn’t the word that springs to mind if I try to sum up my state of mind now that we’re seven days over.

Physically, I feel fine. The good fortune I’ve had throughout seems to be continuing to the end (there will be an end, right?) and so I’ve no real gripes. My only genuine difficulty is with the putting on, and removal of, shoes. Just a few days ago, as I prepared to leap about the room in  fit of star jumps and lunges (gravity + energy must = labour), I hoisted my trainered foot onto the TV cabinet to tie the laces and was reprimanded by P, who suggested the furniture was worth more than my dignity and that I should find another way to secure my shoes. When I insisted there was no other way, he shook his head. ‘Think of what an Oompa Loompa would do and apply that method.’

You can see, can’t you, why I might want my manoeuvrability reinstated.

Rotund dwarven comparisons aside, I’m doing okay. My bones aren’t aching, my heart’s not burning and my feet, despite my husband’s belief that they should be stomping their way through Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, are not swollen. I can sit it out (on the swiss ball), then. Only it’s not that simple. After nine months of growing you and longer of wanting you, these last few days of the wait seem longer than most, even though, with the turning back of the clocks fast approaching, they’re actually shorter.

I’ve been trying to occupy myself, an attempt to trick you into thinking I’m not totally preoccupied by your arrival, that there are other things, baby, than you. But we both know there’s not. All the baking - the flapjacks, the scones and Cheddar corn muffins - they’re all for your benefit, energy food so I can forge my well-fed way through labour. The freezer is stacked with stews and soups so that in the first few days of your life, we’ve no need to think of menus and recipes and who’s going to stop staring at you for long enough to stand at the stove. Even Rambo has become, in turn, either my surrogate baby - swamped with cuddles and kisses and coos of ‘who’s my precious boy’ - or my labour inducer - all those big-dog walks he’s now getting are as much for my own selfish desire to bring on the big event as they are for his health and pleasure. I’ve even taken to running short stretches, hoping the bumpy untarmac’d road along which we gamble will trigger you into some kind of action.

Perhaps a longer jog is what’s needed, though I fear were I to stray too far from home and the plan to prove successful, a Paula Radcliffe style roadside comfort break might be required, only in my case I’d be releasing a slightly more precious load. Given the fact I’m writing this now, I’ve obviously no problem with going public as far as this pregnancy’s concerned, but baring all while bearing down is perhaps one step too far. And so I shall stick close by, popping out only for pineapples and curries. I assume P wouldn’t want me seeking the other labour catalysts in our local Tescos, although his Oompa Loompa perception of me could well mean otherwise. I wonder how many loyalty card points I’d need to redeem for the recommended thrice daily one-hour nipple stimulation sessions that are supposed to encourage the release of oxytocin. The poor adolescent check-out boy would most likely be too mortified to live up to the company ethos: every little helps.

And so I’ll stay put, punching out the same old text messages (“nothing yet” / “still pregnant” / “any chance I can borrow your Tesco club card?”) and searching the internet for novel ways to hurry you along. Though perhaps I should just leave you be. It can’t possibly be too much longer. You will come when you’re ready, and when that time comes, it will be well worth any extended wait. I waited for your father, after all and, just as it is with him and me, so it shall be for us three: we’ll have the rest of our lives together.

Oompa Loompa Doompadee Dah

If you’re not [impatient] you will go far

You will live in happiness too

Like the Oompa Oompa Loompa domopadee do.

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