I’ve just knitted a bootee. Just the one, though, because then I ran out of wool. What would you do – make the other one in red, or wait until I can get another ball of green?

This was thrilling to make, because it formed itself into a shoe-shape as I knitted. It’s very small, obviously, so things all happened quickly; and it features a little bit of rib (which you can’t see in the picture, because it facilitates the roll-over cuff), and there was turning, and picking-up-and-knitting, and it was just fun.

There are two very satisfying elements to knitting baby clothes: they are gratifyingly fast, and because you generally use a smooth yarn, you can see the stitches. Not like that horrible mohair, which just looked like a rag because I couldn’t see what I was doing. And if I ever venture into knitting lace again, it will be nice if people can actually see what I achieved, stitch by stitch, rather than just a finished garment which non-knitters would be unable to appreciate.

I know, I expect a lot from the beneficiaries of my knitting projects; especially since the main beneficiary isn’t even born yet, and may not appreciate the complex art of knitting, well… ever.

Last night we spent the evening in Reading, where we went to see a spanish band. They haven’t been playing together for long, and only have six songs, three of which are covers; but for all that, they had a good sound and pleasant singing voices. Pete’s band could out-perform them with their hands tied behind their backs, but that’s beside the point, because Pete’s band never performs at all. Boo.

We take the train to and from Reading, because it’s only a short ride, and an even shorter walk home from the station. We like to get on at the first door and walk down through the carriages, collecting all the newspapers that have been abandoned during the day. They are mostly Metros and Evening Standards, but we usually get one Times and some gutterpress. Then we read the papers or do the sudokos (which is good, if you have five copies of the paper, because when you go wrong you can start again; or you can race against each other. Pete wins, of course).

When we get home, we take the papers with us and put them in the recycling box, because I know that South West Trains would just send them to landfill. Pete’s mum says that recycling is done by cowboys, and doesn’t make you green at all; but that’s another story.

Baby's age: -55 days

This whole tiredness thing is weird. In the early weeks, I was sleepy most of the time (and sick). I don’t remember having much extra energy during the second trimester, but I think I did sleep a bit less. Now I am tired and slow, my body is heavy and it aches a lot. I never made a conscious decision to go slow or sleep more for the sake of the baby; it was just what my body wanted, and that’s the thing, I’m now controlled by whatever my body decides it needs. Sometimes this is more literal than others; if I walk too fast, I get braxton-hicks contractions, which are uncomfortable, bordering on painful. I have to stop until they pass. I know I’ve never been the world’s most energetic walker, but it’s pretty strange to be taking half an hour to walk around the block.

I am whiny and demanding all the damn time, and must be pushing Pete to the limits of his very good nature, but he doesn’t complain so I don’t know how much I’m pissing him off. Since really early on, it has been impossible to forget about being pregnant for a moment. It is branded on my body and in my mind, the first thing I think about when I wake up every day. There is very little that is absorbing enough to distract me from the Presence. I am operating on instinct, struggling to filter all the information and kindly-meant advice; to decide what we actually need and what is just nonsense (one book reminds me to take curling tongs to hospital). Even with a virtually symptomless pregnancy, it would be hard to breeze through as though nothing was happening; and who has a symptomless pregnancy? It’s not because I’ve always wanted to have a child, and have leapt into the pregnant mindset with a yell of delight; I never expected this to happen to me, and I had no idea that the existence of this creature inside would swallow up every other aspect of Me.

Pregnancy and future-motherhood obsesses me, and I worry about excluding Pete, and suddenly realise that I have made a whole string of decisions without even mentioning them to him. It’s hard to know whether he is happy enough to let me do the worrying, or if he would rather be more involved in the nitty gritty of what colour muslin sheets we get. He just sees the parcels as they get delivered by magic, and occasionally I tell him where I have put the contents, just in case he needs to get access to them at some point. It’s very hard to think our baby, our pregnancy, rather than MINE, because it’s all happening inside me. He did his bit, and just has to wait a few months, occasionally rubbing my back, until the screaming starts. Then I might be a bit keener to share…

This is of course a gross oversimplification of the involvement of Pete. He’s not just the man with the sperm and the magic back-rubs. His enthusiasm and the interest he takes in the whole process at least make me feel like my obsession is not entirely freakish. He protects me from overbearing family and smokey pubs, and orders pizza when I am too whelmed to cook. He has a very nice smile.

Baby's age: -59 days

Yesterday I attended the doll-feeding class, fully equipped with a borrowed baby doll of extreme ugliness. It was mainly about positioning, and a demonstration from a nice girl with a two-day old baby who made it all look extremely comfortable and pleasant. The atmosphere was very encouraging; the hospital has a breastfeeding clinic every weekday morning, to assist with problems and support you when the nasty community midwives tell you to supplement with formula.

Disappointingly, though, there were only five of us in the class. Considering our antenatal classes have at least 20 couples in attendance, and there are fewer breastfeeding classes, I would have expected a better turn-out. We know why, though. All five of us have already experienced a significant lack of support from the people around us, warning us how hard it is, how idealistic we are, how disappointed we will be. Why not just inveest in some nice easy formula? (How is formula, with all the measuring and sterilising and faffing, easier than applying baby to breast for food that is free and perfectly tailored to one individual baby?).

Once again, all we hear about is about fitting the baby into our lives, and not the other way round. I continue to struggle with the idea that I’m going through all of this uncomfortable pregnancy stuff, and the experience of childbirth, just to put the baby away in a drawer so that it doesn’t disturb me too much. I have every intention of letting my life revolve around the baby, absolutely completely for six months, and then as far as is possible within the demands of earning some money to keep him in handknitted cashmere. I believe that this can be done, and I will not be distracted by naysayers, however closely they are related to me.

The two stupidest bits of advice of last week (you can decide which one takes the biggest biscuit): 1. Don’t sit so close to the desk, you will squash the baby! (Belly was not actually touching desk). 2. Make sure you get out by yourselves as soon as possible! (It’s as if the baby has been non-consensually inflicted upon us as a couple. And that’s not how it is).

I know I go on about this a lot, but I’m practicing for when I actually have to stand up for myself about something baby-related. Sooner or later there will be actual rather than theoretical conflict with the rod-for-your-own-back school.

Anyway, this morning we had an NHS parentcraft class, all about pain relief. The very good community midwife filled us with seditious thoughts about aromatherapy and homebirths, and we now plan to check out a nearby birth centre which we had previously dismissed because of the way it was[n't] sold to us by our own midwife (BUT if it goes wrong, you’ll be transferred to Slough). If we use the birth centre there is a much higher chance of getting to use a pool, and a much lower chance of interventions such as forceps or a caesarian. The problem is that you are expected to make these choices at about 8 weeks, when you are totally ignorant about the entire thing; and not until 30 weeks+ do they start giving you the sort of information you need in order to make a sensible decision. Presumably so they don’t waste too many resources on the 15% of pregnancies that end in miscarriage, but really, the number of couples today who suddenly looked as though they might change their minds about their hospital booking suggests that we’re going to be a small administrative nightmare for the midwives who tried not to give us a choice in the first place. As for homebirth, my midwife didn’t even suggest it.

Baby's age: -62 days

Yesterday I was feeling awful. My iron levels are low, but according to the doctor, not drastic. I spoke to her on the phone, and she said she could give me iron tablets, which pleased me; but now I’ve got them, I don’t want to use them. I’d rather try to eat a more iron-rich diet, it feels like a more positive approach. I have put the tablets in the kitchen as a reminder. Last night’s dinner was cold roast beef and spinach salad, and this morning’s breakfast was grape nuts and prunes. Oh yes, iron is fun. Poor Pete.

I should point out that it’s not all bad. I mean, I don’t intend to have any more pregnancies after this one, because physically, it just isn’t very much fun; but I’m not having a totally miserable time. Sometimes I feel like I do nothing but moan about the symptoms and side effects.

Despite having very little energy, I’m trying to do lots in these last few weeks. We are pretty booked up; we could go out every night this week, if I hadn’t vetoed tonight’s pub quiz. At the weekend, we have a party in Oxford on Friday night, an antenatal class on Saturday morning, possibly a bass-purchasing excursion to London in the afternoon, and on Sunday we’re driving to Bristol with a load of furniture for my brother. Normal, unpregnant Karen would not contemplate such a taxing weekend.

Everything is going to change soon, so I do feel inclined to stuff as much into my remaining time as possible. I don’t feel that our social life will die completely, but that it will all be different, and for a while it will be harder. I like the idea that we are going to pass such a huge milestone, though; it’s bigger than getting married or buying a house; it’s bigger than anything I’ve ever done.

I like the bits where women get all chatty in shops, and men offer me seats on the train (this latter does not happen particularly often). I like having back rubs and bump massages from Pete (he calls it our bump). I like feeling the baby move (apart from late at night when I want to sleep, but so it goes). I like the shopping and the knitting. I like the teeny tiny hats and jackets, and the all-prepared hospital bag. And frankly, I like moaning about indigestion and tiredness; it’s what pregnant women do.