Anastasia and her husband, Nick, have been married for three years and are expecting their first baby any day now

Still here

I had this secret hope that I’d never get to write my 38–40 week diary instalment. I talked myself into the belief that I would have had this baby early. No such luck. I sit here today ON MY DUE DATE and nothing’s happening. That’s not entirely true. Lots is happening. My hands and fingers have swollen and I am experiencing constant pins-and-needles (my typing is pitiful – thank God for spellcheck). It’s another charming pregnancy surprise, which you might know by its real-world name as carpal tunnel syndrome. So my hands feel like two disconnected, electrically charged ham sandwiches stuck on the end of my arms, and they have about the same level of dexterity. My ankles have swollen, too. This prompted a call to the midwife who, as ever, sounded too busy to answer all my questions but seemed satisfied that I’d survive as long as I wasn’t seeing flashing white spots before my eyes, which I’m not. Damn.

Out of sheer boredom and a need to ‘treat myself’ I have been foraging like a pig. I had done so well up until about week 37, eating pretty much as normal, but in the home stretch all hell has broken loose. I feel absolutely justified going down to the bakery and buying myself a family size chocolate brownie, coming home and covering it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce and wolfing down the lot. Eating something this naughty is a daily occurrence. I know it’s not doing my already-stretching skin any good, not to mention wreaking havoc with the rest of my body. But I just don’t care. Every single day I’ve been thinking, ‘Oh, just a few more days…’ Meanwhile, three weeks have gone by and no baby. But lots of junk food.

The bloody telephone

It rings constantly. And every time I say ‘Hello’ there’s audible disappointment from the caller. ‘I thought you’d be in hospital having the baby,’ they all say. I apologise for failing to do what I’m supposed to be doing, they mutter things like ‘take care’ and the call is over. Some have even taken to hanging up on me when I answer, like my father-in-law who rang this morning and said, ‘Oh, you’re there. No news then,’ followed by the sound of the dial tone. This is such a strange time. I feel like a watched pot. Will I ever boil?

Mother nature

She’s a fascinating and clever entity, that Mother Nature. I’ve heard it all before, but it really is true that at the end of the pregnancy all fear is lost to impatience. I truly, out of ignorance, have gone beyond fear of birth and am now experiencing fear of never giving birth. Might this child stay inside me forever? The fact that babies can safely be up to three weeks late is enough to make my ham sandwiches shake with terror. I’m trying to imagine staying in this pregnant state for another three weeks. Just the thought makes my eyes water. I’m planning to fake the flashing white spots before my eyes if all else fails. (I wouldn’t, but at least I’ve got a plan up my sleeve).

The other element that has entered into my pregnancy is comparison. All my friends who were as pregnant as I was have already given birth. They’re off into their new lives as mums and I’m still sitting here like a big fat Buddha. The last straw was the email from my friend Wendy’s husband in New York. Wendy, who was due the day after me, had written me a funny email about her suggestions for getting labour started. I replied with an equally funny list of ideas and admissions of ridiculous things I’ve tried. The next reply said, ‘This is Wendy’s husband, Bob. Wendy gave birth to a beautiful healthy 7lb girl last night…’ Traitor! So I’m officially the last one hanging in there.

And my belly is still sitting up here right under my massive-but-dwarfed breasts. It hasn’t even ‘dropped’ (or engaged into the pelvis). There are those who believe you can still go into labour if your bump is high but they’re few and far between. That’s why I’ve taken to jumping up and down every once in a while. Nick came running up into the bathroom last night. I thought I was being discreet, but apparently the sound of my massive frame pogoing like Tigger sounded like thunder downstairs and gave the game away. He opened the bathroom door and there I was, like a jumping bean, red-faced and staring at him defiantly. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. ‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed, alarmed and clearly worried about my sanity. ‘Trying to get the baby to drop.’ I answered between thuds. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

All I can say is, if I end up writing weeks 40–42, shoot me now.

See Josa Young's pregnancy diary for weeks 38-40.