mothers on the verge

Firstborn had a birthday party yesterday which was held jointly with one of her classmates - thank God because 9 months pregnant + sole responsibility for 15 hysterical pre-pubescents does not a happy partnership make. It was about all I could do to bake a cake, decorate it (looked like the culinary equivalent of Dolly Parton but what the heck, the kids practically inhaled it anyway) and throw a few favours in some party bags. Oh, and drive to the venue with two excited children leaping about like cocker spaniels. Even this small stuff had me waddling about feeling like a Victorian lady having a fit of the vapours. I got even more cross every time I peered down and caught a glimpse of my fat ankles and sausage toes. Plus I was also momentarily majorly p'eed with poor Alpha, who spent the day permanently attached to the loo with a bad case of gastro-flu, just in case he was doing a job on me and trying to duck out of daddy-party-duties. As if he would (dare) but these up-the-duff