That’s me done I said. Two boys now, done and dusted. Hands full and all that jazz. Tidied small clothes and baby equipment into piles; sent them off to friends, charity shops, second hand sites, refugee camps, a women’s refuge. Gone. The lot of it. But I’m not the only one in this equation. Turns out the other half of this partnership was not done at all at all and did a reasonably satisfactory job of persuading me of same. I find myself pregnant. With child. Bun in the oven. Up the duff. Here’s how it’s been going; for what kind of blogger am I if I do not document such things?
Week 4 and a bit
I defiantly drink a couple of glasses of wine on friday and saturday and think, nah, I’m probably not. Sure we just said we’d maybe think about it, I hadn’t really committed to the idea.
About five days later I give in and wee on a stick. I bought the stick the previous lunchtime after ducking in a panic into a manly razor aisle when I spotted someone from my office across the shop. If she’d seen me, I’d have been the weird woman she doesn’t really know buying a pregnancy test and a load of Lynx, instead of just a grown woman buying a pregnancy test.
I think it’s week five. I’m in that long limbo between a blue cross on a small stick and a scan to tell me that everything is okay. But I could still be four and I could even be six because things were a little erratic in the lady-cycle department.
I fill out the forms for the midwives clinic quickly and get an appointment back within a couple of days. I have no reason to go to my GP until later. I’m fine. There’s no symptoms. I wish there were. I’m much more nervous this time. You think the third time round you’d be blasé and for a woman that has never suffered particular hardship or loss in a pregnancy I should be at ease. But I’m not. I’m thinking every single day about all the shit pregnant women I know have gone through in the past few years – so I guess the naiveté of the first time mum is long gone.
I’m not happy or excited or looking forward yet. I will be, but right now I’m just mentally ticking days off a calendar.
I feel so unwell. I wake up in the morning and go head first into the hustle and bustle of the morning. I could do with waking up at 7, moving around briefly, then lying back down for an hour. I’m shouty with the kids. I know it’s good to be so nauseous, it’s a sign everything is progressing nicely. But an underlying feeling of being about to throw up from 7am until noon gets a bit wearing. I buy sea sickness bands, which I’m sure I remember helping me last time. The bands are the most obvious thing in obvious-ville. They will set off a pregno-warning in women who have ever been pregnant, and they may look familiar to fathers too. If someone sees them, they will ask what they are unless I’m wearing a matching headband and carrying a racquet. The positive aspect of horizontal hail showers in late april is that you justify wearing the long sleeves required to disguise the bands. Silver linings.
The three year old tells us about his friend’s new baby sister. He says he’d like a baby girl too, and even tells us what name he’d call her. We think it might come from an episode of Peppa, but both of us mentally jot it down; it’s not a bad choice at all.
My old friend heartburn is appearing sporadically too, just nipping around the edges of my consciousness, reminding me it’s going to take up residency soon.
I nearly tell someone. But then I don’t.
The six year olds reading skills mean he’s in danger of finding out. He finds my old copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting under my bed. Luckily I have a 6 months pregnant friend, so I tell him I was looking something up for her. It was much easier to ignore my earlier pregnancies in everyday conversations when I wasn’t feeling nauseous all the time. It’s proving way harder this time, and I’m feeling every bit of the seven years that have passed since my first pregnancy.
I lurch around all day in a haze of staying upright. It’s midterm, and the six year old wants to go-go-go. At this point I realise that giving in and buying a trampoline at the end of last summer was a brilliant idea. Despite the amount of fights that happen on it, it also uses up quite a lot of boy-energy.
At some point Dominic goes all ninja on me and is in danger of kicking my stomach. I shout at him don’t kick me and he says oh so I don’t kick the baby and I’m so taken aback I just ignore it and continue whatever conversation we were having. I think about it later; it seems like he knows but he’s 6 so if he knows something he says it, he doesn’t tease or drop hints. Secrets burst out of him.
I’m now operating at the level of constant moderate hangover. I take a small glass of prosecco in work from the drinks trolley (a very lovely friday tradition) and have a couple of sips for show. I nearly get sick. I have a waxing and waning headache. I want carbs all the time but I don’t want to cook.
Much like a regular hangover, I make myself do stuff. I eat a dry cracker before I lift my head from the pillow each morning, and that small thing surprisingly, helps. During our recent heatwave – hello eighteen degrees! – we go for a woodland hike. My ‘hangover’ doesn’t improve, but my mood does.
You know when people say ‘gosh that pregnancy flew’? Well, they clearly didn’t live through it. This is not flying.
to be continued…