To fly or not to fly

I have two weeks left to fly. I don't mean enjoying childless life, but more literally being allowed in a plane.

That means, if I am still in Czech Republic after two weeks I will have to deliver in Czech Republic, which is according to plan, but scary nonetheless. The hospital we reserved looks professional and nice, but if a bunch of babies decide to get out on the same date as yours no reservation will prevent the hospital to direct you to another place, even somewhere out of Prague.

Now, there are two things that contribute to me freaking out. First: There is a doctors' strike in Czech Republic. Looks like a good deal of them resigned the last day of the year, when the government decided to cut their salaries. They are supposed to leave their jobs the last day of February. I hope that the government will manage to close a deal with them, because although most of Czech girls are thrilled by the perspective of giving birth home, as God intended it, I'm not.

Second: We got a list with items that you should pack for the hospital. Toilet paper is in the list. Toilet paper! I know that Czechs don't leave home without toilet paper, a knife and a muesli bar, but I will say it again. Toilet paper? Maybe we need the knife too, to cut the umbilical cord. Maybe the muesli bar will come in handy if they don't provide food. Maybe we should consider buying some drugs and syringes, and carry a bucket of soapy water to disinfect the equipment. Maybe Martin should have some cash with him just in case we need to bribe the nurses to get sheets in the bed. Or maybe I should just fly to Spain.

Two weeks to decide it...

Pregnancy symptoms: The belly is starting to be heavy and annoying. I'm having problems to get into public toilets. And still is not getting me a free place in the bus.

Mother instinct: 3 I don't want the baby to go out. But not sure if this is mother instinct or self preservation instinct

Do babies need toothbrushes?

New parents coming into a baby shop. It's like tuna babies walking into a sushi restaurant. We couldn't be more naive. We started with an open question. What do we need to have home for the baby? This kind of opening should have made any bonus driven shop assistant chill with pleasure. Czech shops assistants though, are generally not bonus driven, and therefore they don't chill with pleasure. This concrete shop assistant shrugged her shoulders, made a vague gesture with her hands pointing at the shop behind her and left us on our own. Of course we didn't get further as to buy a set of baby pajamas.

Then we moved on to another shop and after a bit of insistence a lady agreed to help us. Then yes, it was more or less as I expected. We threw into the bag and pay without questioning everything the lady suggested we may need. No thinking process involved. No wonder why a baby would need a toothbrush or why we needed a set of especially tiny clothes (is it bad for the baby if the pajama is a bit longer than it should?) We spent a lot of money, we probably bought a lot of stuff we will never use and we were so happy when we left the shop we could kiss the shop assistant. Yes, new parents are a bit stupid.

Pregnancy symptoms. Soon it is my last visit in the gynecologist and first in the hospital. I guess it is the moment to start panicking about giving birth.

Mother instinct. 2 I Still do not like crying babies. Specially crying babies in restaurants. Actually, I am not sure why I'm supposed to suddenly like crying babies. What is the hormone I am missing?

Are you a bad parent if you buy a cot from IKEA?

Martin has this colleague at work that is two weeks more pregnant than us. They both were responsible to turn their departments lunch breaks into a discussion about the best brand of stretch mark creams.

His colleague seems also way more responsible than we are. First of all, he did marry (doesn't that sound responsible?) and he leaves in a place that could eventually host a baby. If our baby decides to get out now, we will have to install the cot between the bathtub and the washing machine. Also, his colleague has started with the shopping, so he has a cot to install somewhere.

The good thing is that they engaged into some kind of male competition to see who the best provider is. A bit troglodyte if you ask me, but it really made Martin not only be willing to go to the baby store, but actually suggest to go to the baby store. Remarkable.

Now, in the baby store, we became a little more familiar with price ranges and features. Winnie de Pooh, for example, is responsible for about a 30% increase in the price without offering any visible upgrade in functionality. You can get a solid and fashionable Winnie de Pooh cot for about 700 euros and be sure you will be able to use it during the next five years... or you can buy a cot in Ikea for 100 euros. You can buy a cheaper version of the solid cot with an unknown bear in the front for about 400 euros... or you can go for the tempting, tempting Ikea 100 euros cot.

I'm an Ikea fan, but let's face it. We had to replace the chairs in the kitchen more than once, and some of the items we destroyed even during installation. More importantly, Martin's colleague is not going to buy an Ikea cot, no sir! So we will probably pretend we are responsible parents even if it costs us a few more hundred. Sigh!


Pregnancy symptoms: I fear business trips will be over when I cannot put my shoes on without help.

Mother instinct: 4. I came to realize baby items are cute. Winnie the Pooh is not cute, though. I hate the freaking bear

Silver card

I passed the 10 kilos benchmark (extra weight one should put over the pregnancy) in mid November. Now, with a very significant waist size, I'm what can be only defined as "a very pregnant lady". The baby kicks like he is high on sugar, and he probably IS high on sugar, given that I cannot stop nibbling.

I thought at this stage one becomes a rounded cute respectable lady that should be taken care of, given priority access and spots in buses, get carried around her luggage in trains and given priority treatment in other number of ways. Well. No.

I'm lucky or unlucky enough to own a sixties style bell shaped coat that hides my belly so properly I had to give my place in the bus to a nice old lady when she stood up staring half a meter from me. In the office, besides the eventual hint to the fact that I plan to come back to work soon and that is stealing my child the right of having his mummy home, I don't get any special treatment, having to deliver my reports on time and travel to Bratislava every week. People are extra nice, sure, but no special treats.

So, things like this, in the airport I was fearing for the worse, holding close the pregnancy papers that prove I should be allowed to fly and expecting that I would have to squat ridiculously to take off my shoes. Sure enough, I had to squat ridiculously to take off my shoes, but I was also given all kind of special treats and preferences. Pregnancy? No dear, ownership of a silver card that from time to time sends me directly to business class paradise. Ah, this materialistic world…


Pregnancy symptoms: Inability to bend over without spreading my legs like an inflated frog

Mother instinct: I have to admit, it is nice when the little alien kicks and moves inside. Nice and freaking weird too