Anastasia and her husband, Nick, have been married for three years and are expecting their first baby in a few weeks

Nearing the home stretch

I can almost hear my skin stretching. Every time I think I can’t get any bigger, I get bigger. My friends are beginning to say, ‘There’s no way that baby’s making it to the due date…’ which, of course, only increases my expectation that perhaps this pregnancy won’t last the full 40 weeks. The advantages to this are that an early baby is a smaller baby, decreasing the chances of an OUCH-sized head attached to a 10lb body. Also, the earlier it comes out, the less my tummy has to expand. I read that a baby, after 37 weeks, gains half a pound a week. Relatively speaking, that’s a hell of a lot. Come on, baby.

Having said that, there’s a real magic in this time I have alone with Nick. We’re aware of the fact that soon everything is going to change. It will never be ‘just us’ as we have lived for the past five years. Even when the sprout is 35 years old, we’ll be worried about him or her. Someday soon we will be parents and there’s no retreat from that. We’re making the most of this precious time. Nick has been brilliant about working ‘normal’ hours for the first time in his life. We’ve gone out to dinner nearly every night, spent the day at the Tate Modern, gone to the cinema . . . in short, we’re treating ourselves and doing the things that our friends with children warn us we’ll never do again. (Of course, we don’t believe them.)

My bag of tricks

Suddenly I’m obsessed with packing my hospital bag. You’d think this would be a ten-minute distraction, especially for someone who has travelled as much as I have, someone who can pack for two weeks in Thailand in five minutes flat. But the hospital bag is a completely different animal. Once again, information overload means that I have no less than six separate lists, either gathered from my NCT class, ripped out of magazines or distributed by the hospital itself.

What really surprised me, and not in a good way, was the suggestion that we bring our own Dettox cleaner and cloth to the hospital. Apparently, cleanliness is not a priority on the NHS. The hospital actually made the suggestion to bring your own. My sources also recommend bringing your own pillows, sheets, flannels, towels, nappies and all the assorted birth paraphernalia: soap, water, maternity towels, loo paper and more. Suddenly the hospital bag has become the hospital suitcase. I feel like I’m preparing for a camping trip (not that I’ve ever been on one). Our own loo paper? I mean, I know the NHS is under some financial pressure, but really . . . It’s all a bit worrying.

My lotions and potions

Not only do I have to bring the essential stuff, I’ve also done tons of research and embarked on an alternative medicine rampage purchasing every single thing that I have read about, or imagined might help me get through labour without drugs. (Remember my epidural-links-to-Caesearean fear?) So, I’ve stocked up on a homeopathic labour kit. It includes remedies for intense fear (can I take one now, please?) irrationality, negativity, inability to cope, etc.

I’ve told Nick he has to familiarise himself with the instruction sheet and shove the little tablets under my tongue as I display the varying waves of mania as described in the leaflet. I’ve also tapped into aromatherapy and stocked up on the birthing essentials. Apparently clary sage brings on contractions and acts as a painkiller, while lavender relaxes the muscles and makes it easier to push. I’m armed with my smelly candles and rose-scented face spray. I’ve got vitamin C for healing. There’s Bach’s Rescue Remedy for, I suppose, more fear, not to mention arnica cream (not exactly sure where to put it) and some kind of homeopathic spray for a sore perineum.

Then there’s the food and energy section. I’ve got glucose tablets in case I cannot eat. Peppermints in case I’m nauseous. Lucozade in case I’m dehydrated. And every flavour of energy/granola bar that exists in case I have uncontrollable carbohydrate cravings.

This bag is heavy. I know I’ll probably use about one-tenth of the stuff in there, but the tiny element of control that gathering and packing it has given me is probably worth it. It’ll be interesting to see if any of it actually works. I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, I’m off for a cup of raspberry leaf tea: tones the uterus, tastes like Sellotape.

See Josa's pregnancy diary for weeks 36-38.