Having a dreamy smile plastered upon your glowing healthy face as you ponder, misty eyed, over which precise style of wood turning will suit your all natural nursery cot best. If your bump is pink, blue or will you stay ‘team yellow’?
Yeah, screw that.
Cue the tears, the tantrums, the aches, pains and insomnia.
Don’t get me wrong, being pregnant is amazing, wonderful. I never thought it would happen to me again (yes, I do have a 7 year old already, I am not new to this), didn’t think I could even conceive, for years, as it just wasn’t happening. Then it did and voila! Here I am sporting the biggest 6 month bump ever.
So I am growing a baby. Yeah. YAY! Still growing.
Still growing it. Is it done yet? Are we nearly there yet?
OK still growing it. -sigh-
No sorry, can’t come out clubbing, growing a baby. Nah, just the one glass for me, growing a baby.
Yeah I’d love to come out riding, but I’m growing a baby.
Wow fantastic, amazing idea for a business venture! But, -yawn- growing a baby.
Dancing? Love to learn. But… yeah. Growing a baby.
Ok so I am sat in my room and still growing this baby. Which had better damn well be the healthiest baby ever, as I have done nothing but get fat and stay stinkingly sober for it.
Oh yes, the fat. Wow, the SIZE of those THIGHS. I am pretty sure that by now I have the fat stores to feed a large proportion of those kids in the cut scenes of Comic Relief – you know, the short films you’re morally obliged to sit through and feel terribly guilty at, while waiting for the next bout of hilarity from some of the UK’s finest stand-ups and performers.
Everything I eat is for the baby, didn’t you know? Nooooo, I am not eating this family size tub of caramel with marshmallow pieces and honeycomb segments for me! Just how selfish do you think I am? It’s all for the baby silly. -licks spoon-
Another day, another night peeling off the grotesque cotton gusset ‘big pants’ and NON-matching soft cup, non wired support bra in 5 sizes up from normal, to crawl into bed exhausted at the very thought of even having to breathe while vertical for another 5 minutes.
Attempting to snuggle up, only to flap and fluster in too hot, too sticky, too clingy and just damn WRONG sheets, catch an unattended nipple on a bottom sheet that has morphed into some kind of sandpaper-feel material while you weren’t looking and promptly burst into tears at the unfairness of it all.
But (and here is the important part), it’s all normal! Well, that’s a relief then. It is also, somewhat stunningly, all so worth it! Well good, I had been worried that after giving birth I would look down at my newborn and think what the fuck? All that growing just for you to come out of me? I gave up nights on the tiles in 5 inch heels and a hip flask of vodka just for you?
Seriously, people say the silliest things when you’re pregnant.
Yes, I adore being pregnant. I am not taking it for granted in the slightest. My baby will have a devoted mother, ready to nurture, protect, breastfeed, defend and love. I love the feeling of my baby inside me, kicking, squirming, turning, moving and growing.
However there is also the ME side of me. The JUST me side. The woman that feels so seductive… in my head, until I look in the mirror and realise that the erotic lace attire that I dreamed about enticing the other half with that night REALLY wouldn’t go with my baby bump. Never mind the concerns about finding a micro thong, once I’d managed to even get it on over these thighs.
I have beautiful high heels. Can’t wear ‘em. Gorgeous lingerie. Doesn’t fit/hurts/creates an ‘unhealthy’ environment. (what the fuck?)
Clinging fetishwear in latex and PVC. Yeah… I’d look like a goth beachball walking down the road.
Oh also, apparently pole dancing is also out of the question. Who knew?
So I will take my miserable self off to bed, hopefully to hibernate for the next few months in layers of soft cotton pants, duvet and healthy snacks (ok, junk food), and be the Growing A Baby Machine.
Carry on without me. I’ll catch up later. Hopefully.
-sips a mocktail-