In seven days time, I will be back on The Rock, hopefully enjoying nicer weather than what we have going on here in England. Mind you, it’s not cold, but the sun seems to be hiding behind this grey curtain called the sky. I am longing to go out with short-sleeves and get some colour on my pale body. I want to go for walks on the sandy beaches, go out for evening ice-creams and being able to drive my car with the windows down.
I am eagerly awaiting this holiday, mostly because it will be a long one compared to our normal weekend escapades, but also because at this point in my life, I am missing The Rock, and most importantly, its’ inhabitants. I am missing my mother, though there is no way I will tell her that because she would take that as a sign that I am somehow fed up of my English life, which thankfully I am not! But I do miss her taking care of me, smothering me at times even. I want to spend some time with her, just me and her, going out for lunches, chatting and drinking coffee (and tea) together. I want to hear her repeat the stories of when she was pregnant with me and my brother, her experience of it all and her advice. Yes, I am sure I will not agree with it all, and some arguments will not go amiss, but some advice can only be given to you by your mother. And I am ready to bask in it all!
I am also missing my friends – the people I have known since I was seven and eight, who remain my best friends to this very day! Thank God for modern technology which keeps us updated in each others’ lives as much as possible, but with some of them having children now, I just want to meet up with them all and cover them in sloppy wet kisses. The children, that is!! In fact, I am setting up dates with everyone I can, and so far I have a lunch, a brunch, two coffee dates and dinner lined up! Thank God I have nothing to worry weight-wise, or else…
Also, as I had posted a couple of weeks back, my lovely A has his birthday coming up at the end of the month. What started off as a small gathering of closest friends to be held at out penthouse, has now grown in number (the latest head count reached 35), and my sister-in-law wisely advised me to hold it elsewhere. Her reasoning makes total sense, because not only was I worrying about how I would smuggle the guests in without A finding out, but also about the cleaning up the day afterwards. I had been offered help, but I am sure I would not have completely enjoyed it knowing that I would have to wake up the next day to clean the whole place up. So the problem has now been solved by finding an alternative place. It’s a place A and myself absolutely love – an old school bar, frequented by elderly men, mostly ex-seamen, enjoying perfect views of the sea and the harbour. We love going to this place during summer, just when it is starting to get dark, and enjoy a pint of beer in the balcony, listening in to the old men recounting tales of their days at sea. It therefore gives me a good excuse to drag A in there before ‘our dinner’ for a quick drink!
At the moment my poor husband thinks I have totally forgotten his birthday, mainly due to the mushy forgetful pregnancy brain I am always complaining to him about. When he started mentioning his plans for my birthday, which is three weeks after his, I looked at him all innocent, and told him, “Ah yes, you’ll be celebrating your birthday in Malta!” Poor love looked at me as if to “Erm, yes!” I told him that we could go out for dinner on the day since it’s falling on a Saturday. He seemed content with that plan, but I think he deserves better this year. Much better.
For this past year he has been the best. The best partner and husband I could ever wish for. He was patient during my panicky moments before the wedding, helped make my move here to England a smooth one, and is now all I could ever want in a father-to-be. His levels of patience marvel me, because sometimes I get angry with myself for the stupid things I do or forget to do. I forget the almonds cooking in the oven, I over-cook the pasta, I forget to remove a tissue from his trousers pocket before washing it, I forget to iron his work uniform, I throw away an important letter he receives – he does not blink an eyelid or complain one bit, although he does give me an exasperated look every once in a while, but it stops there.
I see him fascinated in the way my body has changed and is continuously doing so. I love how he comes home from work, gives me a kiss and bends down to kiss and talk to my Bump. I appreciate the way he rubs my back when he sees me grimacing because of the ache I get there once in a while, and has now started to help put on my shoes when the bending over is a bit too much. I love reading to him the weekly updates of the baby’s growth and the interest he shows in every bit of information there. I secretly enjoy him teasing me that I am slowly developing the penguin walk, which he knows I hate. And although it sometimes annoys the living daylights out of me, especially when it means waking me up, I appreciate the way he sometimes nudges me back on my left hand side whilst sleeping, knowing that at this point in the pregnancy, it would be better not to sleep on my back as I find myself doing on an unconscious level.
So for all this, for his patience, his love, his respect, his caring nature, I think he deserves this surprise. It will be a very small and respectable token of my thanks and appreciation of having him, this wonderful and loving person, in my life.