29 Weeks up the Duff.
I was 9 weeks pregnant the last time I wrote about this pregnancy.
I was full of hope and joy and love and excitement.
I won’t put weight on! I won’t suffer ill mental health as I am aware of the warning signs! I will stay calm and honest! I will write every week and get back in to blogging! I will document every stage of pregnancy! This is going to be an amazing journey and so different to last time!
So it is with great difficulty I am now forced to admit to you, with all that excitement and wonder having been in the air, I am now actually a 29-week pregnant fat hog with back pain, a lower abdomen shaped like a 6-wheeler caravan and the temper of a thousand rampaging bastards.
My stock phrase ‘I don’t remember it being this hard first time round…’ is uttered every time I get to the top step on our staircase (there are only 12 in total) and nearly palpitate to death, every time I have to get up from my desk and walk the 40 paces to the loo and each and every time I need to put a pair of socks on- grunting and straining like a pot bellied pig trying to cross its legs.
I mean, it must have been hard last time, I just can’t remember it.
I remember eating a lot of KFC and Cadbury’s Drifters. I remember milking my time as Queen of the World and having The Irish One making me tea and running around after me constantly. I vaguely remember being unhappy at resembling the back end of the Magic bus. But seriously, I do not remember it feeling this uncomfortable in every single way, or feeling this downright fed up.
I have been trying to enjoy it, I really have, as I know this will be the last time, but I can barely walk, my back is broken, I am asleep every night by 7.30 pm, and wide awake at 2am (is there such a thing as pregnancy jetlag?) And I am either feeling sick or so full of food in an attempt to get rid of the nausea I feel sick. My thighs are like dodgem cars slamming in to one another, angry and ricocheting with every step. My boobs have gone from a comfy 36B to a pair of stretched war torpedo’s sizing in at 38E, sitting like weapons of mass discussion on my rib cage. (‘Wow your boobs have really grown! The Irish one must be happy!’)
And also Seriously!!!! What is it with people having no filter around pregnant women? (‘Wow you are fucking massive!’)
My hair has also grown outwards. It is now entering Pomeranian territory with the humidity only adding to the Tina turner-esque quality, and on top of all this I am angry, irritable, upset and hurt, joyous and apathetic all of the damn time. (‘I just can’t get over how big you are! Are you sure you aren’t having twins?’)
Sometimes I have to wonder if I am growing a baby in each of my arse cheeks as well as my uterus. (‘How much weight have you actually put on? 2/3 stone?’)
I am having another boy too, so there really was no rational explanation for the constant sickness at the start. (‘Oh are you disappointed you aren’t having a girl?’)
The gnarly old fortune teller at the Irish circus in 1998 was right. She told me in confidence, leaning in from behind a very withered face and the 4 teeth left in her mouth ‘Youuuu are destined to be surrounded by gorgeous men who will worship youuu!’
Forgive me for picturing this a little differently.
I am still excited though. Another boy!
I bloody love boys!
I am Excited and terrified.
I have been awarded an NHS mental health midwife (on account of the whole going loco down in Acapulco thing last time) who is big on visualization. (with a Z.) Not just for in labour, but for the whole time.
What if it is like last time? I am scared.
‘Visualize the love, Visualize the differences, Visualize the joy.’
What if I don’t fall in love with the baby instantly again? What if I turn in to a mega-bitch from hell because I’m cow shit when I’m tired? What if I lose my grip on reality again?
‘Visualize the truth, visualize things getting easier, visualize the challenge passing….’
What if my relationship falls apart again? What if we can’t agree on a name? What if he continues to show no understanding of how I may need a bit more emotional support right now given how vulnerable I am, and carrys on acting like I’m nothing more than an annoyance? What if he never washes the cutlery?
‘Visualize yourself sorting it out…’
Today I am 29 weeks pregnant and I feel and look like dog shit.
But still, I am trying to be positive.
(‘Oh my god, you have 11 weeks left?! You look like you are ready to drop!’)