From around 23 weeks of pregnancy, things went a little quiet here — and for good reason.
On the 1st of August, we were handed the keys to what we hoped would become our forever home. A home we were buying, but at that stage didn’t yet own. It didn’t feel right to share anything about it — especially photos — until completion, so we kept this huge chapter quietly to ourselves.
By the beginning of August, at around 22 weeks pregnant, we stepped into the house for the first time. A house that needed completely gutting. What followed was weeks of cleaning, sorting, clearing, and emotional decision-making.
This was a deceased property. The lady who had lived here since the 1980s had filled it with beautiful furniture, treasured belongings, and a lifetime of memories. The idea of those things being skipped felt genuinely heartbreaking. We knew, instinctively, that many of them would find a home within our home.
The vendor — her son — showed us extraordinary kindness. Because my own house sale had fallen through in May due to circumstances entirely outside of our control, we weren’t technically proceedable. Yet he allowed us to move in while we waited for my sale to complete. Without that generosity, none of what followed would have been possible.
So while we didn’t yet own the house, we began making it habitable over the summer months.
I spent days — weeks — down on my hands and knees scrubbing every inch of this vast, 500-year-old Grade II listed home. A house that has weathered centuries of storms and sheltered countless families. Some days my pregnant body felt utterly broken, like I’d been hit by a truck. But I scrubbed, cleaned, and cleared anyway.
While I did that, Graham worked absolute magic. Filling cracks, painting rooms, bringing order to chaos. His own house sale completed alongside us getting the keys, so he moved his entire home over too — furniture, belongings, life. All the while knowing that until my mortgage could port and my sale complete, we were still in limbo.
We didn’t actually stay in the house for the first two weeks. Not until furniture arrived and the basics were in place. The sorting felt relentless, but we were incredibly lucky to have a wonderful team of family rallying around us to help.
To give you a sense of the house itself:
A beautiful farmhouse kitchen with a large inglenook fireplace. A big utility room. A stunning slabbed hallway leading into the dining room — a room that, at that point, had leaks, damp, and was still full of the previous owner’s trinkets. A lounge filled with character. An original wooden staircase rising to an impressive landing, leading to one smaller double bedroom, one large double, and a truly vast master suite stretched across the front of the house — complete with a dressing room, walk-in wardrobe, and en suite.
Then there’s another staircase leading up to the loft rooms, spanning the entire footprint of the house all over again.
It was — and is — a project house. Full of history, full of potential.
The months rolled on in a blur of painting, decorating, sorting bedrooms, moving furniture to the loft, and trying to carve out calm within chaos.
And all the while, my tummy grew. And grew. And grew.
The pregnancy itself was going beautifully. Our baby boy was thriving, strong, and content inside me.
Midwifery care, however, was inconsistent. I didn’t have the same midwife throughout, which was disappointing. Each appointment brought slightly different advice — particularly around aspirin and growth scans — but overall, everything was progressing as it should.
By October, we were finally sleeping comfortably in the house. My own property had re-sold in August, and now we were racing the clock to complete before our baby boy’s arrival in November. He had been head-down since 31 weeks — something I had hoped for so deeply, as I wanted the birthing suite at Worcester.
At 33 weeks, I received a call from Redditch Hospital inviting me in for a growth scan. The lady apologised, explaining that Worcester had been extremely busy and that my scan was now technically overdue.
This stemmed from the earlier conflicting advice. Some midwives believed I needed additional growth scans due to how small Louis had been. Others felt they weren’t necessary, as Louis was a beautiful, perfect little enigma who had simply been dealt a devastating hand.
I was more than happy to accept the scan.
I loved seeing my baby boy on the screen. Loved the reassurance. Loved hearing that he wasn’t just thriving — but measuring on the 90th centile. How ironic it felt to be told how big he was, instead of how small. I was even told I’d need gestational diabetes testing to rule that out.
I also had a consultant appointment at Redditch, but thankfully my next scan was moved to Evesham, which felt much closer to home — emotionally as well as physically.
I continued working alongside all of this. My last working day was scheduled for Friday 21st November 2025. If I made it that far — and I had every intention of doing so.
On the 30th of October, at 36 weeks, I attended another growth scan followed by a consultation with my consultant — the same woman who had cared for me in 2020 with Louis.
Seeing her again was incredibly special.
She apologised sincerely for the lack of consistency in my care and explained that she had written in my notes to “treat Laura normally.” She wanted me to enjoy this healthy pregnancy. To be left alone. But with rotating midwives, that intention hadn’t quite translated.
She smiled and told me my name had landed in her inbox a lot over the past few months.
Oops.
As always, she was utterly lovely. Calm, kind, and reassuring. And she happily agreed to stretch and sweeps from 38 weeks.
Which brings us neatly to the 17th of November.
38 weeks pregnant.
A house still mid-transformation.
A body tired but strong.
A heart full of hope.
