BRAXTON HICKS ARE NO LAUGHING MATTER

Have any of you ever been head butted in the vagina? 

I have, and despite it causing you to stop what you’re doing and cock your leg at an awkward angle like a dog over a bush, it is still preferable to doing your taxes. I know, as of yesterday they’re overdue, but surely if anything gets you off having your taxes done on time, it’s impending childbirth. And I really doubt the Australian taxation office is going to chase down someone who earned below the poverty line. Again. I have more in claims than I do in earnings.

Doing taxes is so excruciatingly painful for me, that half the time I can’t even be bothered putting in all my deductions because that just makes the whole process take longer. I will willingly miss out on money because sitting in front of a computer, adding up how much I spent on stationary causes my eyes to water then glaze over entirely, my brain to cease any independent thought and I hear a low humming in my ears.

I would rather go through labour than do my taxes. And that’s a wish that just might come true rather sooner than we thought apparently. The baby is engaged, (hence the head butting on the clacker) the Braxton Hicks are more present than not and gathering momentum as I type, and several other less savoury systems have kicked into action too. (It’s messy this childbirth gig. Lots of leaking and unidentifiable liquid presenting itself at inopportune times and making you rather nervous you might embarrass yourself in public).

The bags are packed…sort of. I’ve got some clothes sitting out on the couch with sundry other items like wheat packs, dried prunes, (constipation after pushing a human out from between my legs sounds like something I’d rather avoid if you don’t mind) enough sensible undies to supply a private girls’ school and a charged camera. I’d say we’re ready. As ready as we’re ever going to be given that no one is actually qualified to raise a human. Stand by for updates people, the peanut is getting closer.