There I was, sinking back into the hot bubbles after a long day at school, thinking how nice it was to be with my little girl and relax, as such precious moments are hard to find.
I remember watching Grace as she concentrated on her shape sorter and thought how quickly she was growing up.
It was not long after that the poo came bobbing past on small wave. She had not been concentrating on her shape sorter at all.
At first I thought it was just one of her toys, a tug boat or something, but then it got closer, almost level with my nose (it was a deep bath) and I knew it was no toy...
"JAMMMMMESSSS!! IT'S A POOO" I shrieked. I tried my best to get out the bath, but it was hard, being heavily pregnant, trying not to disturb the poo (which had since hidden itself under the bubbles) and trying not to upset poor Grace who was stood up in the bath looking a bit puzzled by all the commotion. "Mummy, I done plopper" she said.
James thought the whole thing was hilarious of course, until
A: I trod on it getting out bath and
B: told him to clean it up while I went and laid down.
I don't know what happened after that, but he was in the bathroom a long time and my rubber gloves were later found in the bin. James said it was very important we did not give Grace a complex about the whole thing, so somehow I have become the family joke and Grace repeatedly says "I done plopper in mummy's bath, silly mummy, handsome daddy."
We have been taking her swimming at the weekend, well, James has.
I am not allowed to go in with them as apparently I "baby" her.
James told me in no uncertain terms " I don't want you getting involved, you can't swim properly. You won't even get your hair wet."
I did not realise how well you could swim was defined by how wet your hair. I get sent off to the slow lane to do lady-lengths in my 70's wrestler's costume (not an intentional choice of attire. My bulbous tummy uses up most of my swimming costume material, meaning the top is pulled down so low my breasts poke out. I have to wear a bikini top over it. It's not exactly the high fashion you see being sported by other members of Falmer's exclusive Racquet club)
Grace loves going though which is the main thing. James loves it too of course, because he looks like single dad of the year splashing about in the kiddies pool alone, and plays up to all the ladies watching from the Jacuzzi with comments like
"No Grace, mummy can't be here, daddy is here though." etc etc.
I often think about getting out to go and claim my territory but fear everyone will just laugh at me in my giant haystacks costume, or worse still, James will pretend he does not know me.
Grace has become a sneaky sleeper. At the weekend when I pray she will give us a lie-in, she wakes at 7am shouting "Mummy, there is a spider in my room, come get me" and demands to go downstairs to watch care bears, but on a Monday morning, when I need her to get up to go to nursery, she snoozes in till about 8.30am and nothing will wake her up.
NOTHING, not even if you tell her you are taking all her toys away or Peppa pig is coming for breakfast. She still ends up in our bed alot and still hits one of us over the head with her milk bottle till we go and replenish it.
She can really hit too, she whacked James over the head so hard she broke her magic wand. "Dad, that rubbish" she said.
She loves the word rubbish, and the word disgusting, except she says 'gris-tost-ing'. For example, all she ever wants to eat is "pishpingers", "chups" and sauce'
Anything else is deemed "gristosting" and sent back to he kitchen at once.
She is rather ambivalent about the impending arrival of her new brother or sister, apart from comments that my tummy is getting fat.
We had an appointment with the midwife last week and heard the baby's heartbeat which was lovely. I can't believe that in less than 12 weeks we are going to have a new little person in the family.
James thinks it's another girl, I think it's a boy and either way Grace wants to call it Georgie.
I just want to meet them, and have my body back. I am fighting the pregnant waddle but it's on the horizen.
People keep telling me I am blooming, which I know means I look fat. My hands and feet swell to clownsize proportions by the end of each day, I can't put my shoes on easily.. and it's only going to get worse, but it's all worth it.
I can't wait to see what we made this time, but of course I am going to have to - and in the meantime I have six journalist exams to pass!
Latest photos here: