Week 12: you’re real July 30, 2007

Dear space prawn,

On Thursday your father and I got to see for the first time that you’re really in there, and you have four limbs in working order, a head, a nose, fingers and toes all accounted for and a very cute little wriggle action when you’re woken up.

We had our scans for Down’s Syndrome and to date your arrival properly.

I was a bit nervous before we went in. What if there were two of you in there? (At least that might help explain my gargantuan eating habits).

I lay back on the bed as the doctor spread some cold gel on

Weeks 10-11: my health, my god, the system, philosophies on gender and parenting in general July 14, 2007

My general health

I went through a real phase when I was about 28 of reading pregnancy week-by-week books, partly possibly because I subconsciously thought at the time that it might actually make me pregnant, a state I feared and hoped in equal amounts I’d be at the end of each 28 day cycle for as long as I could remember.

I also read them partly because of what I call the Snot Factor. Everybody has a Snot Factor, some have a factor higher than others. I, personally, have a reasonably high factor. I have no problem squeezing The Beloved’s zits, no problem watching pus or operations on the telly. So I partly read these books for the Snot Factor, thinking at the time: err! that’s gross yet fascinating! my body won’t do that. will it?

It has. It pleases me not.

Heartburn? Tick. Constipation? Tick. Oh, go on then, a bit of reflux? TICK. Indi-fucken-gestion? Tickety fucken tick. Let’s not forget the ever expanding bosoms and the ache they cause me when I move position in the night. Or the constant action in my bladder. Fucks sake. And it’s only week 10-and-a-half.

Having never experienced heartburn before, after my first attack I had to calm myself down (because there’s this part of your brain that goes, oh, shiiiiiit, I’m dying … IS THIS IT? NO BABY? NO WEDDING? Oh, man … aaarrrggghhh!!! the pain! I AM DYING!) then get myself to a chemist quick smart to get some pregnant-safe antacid.

A double-edged sword: the agony I was undergoing with heartburn was equalled only by the really shitty tasting tablets I had to chew to get rid of it, a pint of milk not being within buying distance. I mean, aniseed tasting salty chalk?? What the fuck?

Small sundry health snipes aside, my general health is good. The morning sickness has subsided (mostly) and been replaced with the most gnawing hunger I’ve ever experienced. I wake up hungry, I wake up in the night hungry, I go to work after three bits of toast and a bowl of cereal and I get hungry; this is interrupted only by mild nausea mid-afternoon in combination with the almost completely overwhelming urge to sleep my life away, at least for the subsequent 60 minutes.

My health, according to the system

I endured my first visit from my allocated midwife last week. Madam Too Busy To Be Nice was very busy ticking all the boxes on all the forms and rushing through the asking of questions that she forgot her bedside manner and to be gentle when she took my blood. She was also too busy to take my blood properly, so some of our test results are now a little late in arriving. If she’s like that sticking a needle in my arm, I thought, there is no way she’s getting near my clacker. Absolutely no fucking way.

Not impressed, was my assessment, and after two days of hand-wringing, desperate for some way through the maze of the NHS that would allow me to pick someone who, you know, at the very least acted like she gave a shit I was pregnant and going to squeeze a giant watermelon out of my clacker in about seven months, but for a while there I thought I was going to be stuck with the dragon the “free” system threw my way. Luckily, this is not the case. Luckily, I have a very nice GP who specialises in antenatal care at my local surgery, so after a wee weep with the district nurse, who took my blood properly and gently, my problem was solved. One step at a time. And breathe.

Baby brain: not so much

One of the first signs for me that something was a little up the duff was that the sound of kids and babies crying no longer bothered me. It still no longer bothers me, to the point that I now bother new mums on trains and in the shops to start up a conversation about how I’m pregnant and ooh, so cuuute! The little one! And where did you get that pram from?

My baby brain does not extend, however, to sighing and cooing over baby clothes in shops. In the shops, clothes for babies under six months are in neutral colours like beige (NEVER ON MY WATCH), white (clearly made by people whose babies don’t shit or vomit), pastel pink or pastel blue. Over six months there is immediate and very distinct gender characterisation occurring: clothes are either pink/red or blue. Flowers or trains. Hearts or bears.

WHERE IS THE FUNKY PURPLE? THE CRAZY ORANGE? THE CLOTHING THAT ISN’T CROSS MARKETED WITH A MOVIE/TOY?? WHERE, good people, where?

This antiquated notion of rigid and boring gender roles for fucking humans WHO CAN’T EVEN WALK, let alone think for themselves, my god, what is this? My brain does not understand this need to relate to a boy baby differently to a girl baby. It’s just a baby. *It* doesn’t care what it wears, as long as it’s warm and dry. It’s only a societal, adult perception that babies and toddlers should be immediately identified as either a boy or a girl, leading on, still, boring as it is, to relating and coaxing those little human sponges into continuing this gender stereotyping that I REALLY FUCKING HATE.

I have for quite some time been of the opinion that people should relate to, and treat each other as exactly that, people first, and your esteem for another be based on information, evidence, words and deeds. It doesn’t matter their sex.

Apparently the makers of children’s apparel are of a different opinion.

Fine. Fuck them. I’ll learn to sew my own.

Parenting in general

The Beloved and I have been talking about parenting and how we are going to approach the family dynamic once this sprog comes into the world.

We have talked well into the night about what it means to be happy, and what we think makes a child happy (other than boob juice and swaddling). I think we are united in how we are going to go about things, which gives me confidence going into this thing.

A child cannot be spoiled with too much love. There is no such thing as too much love for a child, I really believe that. You cannot spoil a child by telling it you love it every day. But children are spoiled with toys and other material things and given love in ways that spoil them. I am already committed to making sure that my child will never doubt my love, never question who its family is, or doubt that it can talk to me or The Beloved, about anything. It may doubt my methods, and will probably spend a great deal of its teenage years hating my guts in general for being embarrassing (can’t wait to spit on the tissue to wipe on its face!!) or for not buying that PlayStation X, or whatever the latest game will be by then. But it will never hanker for my time or my (quality) attention.

Unless it’s having a tanty. Then it’ll just get locked back under the stairs, where it belongs.

Week 6: have you got my brain in there? June 16, 2007

Dear sprog,

Uh, just curious, but are you minding my brain in there? Because I’ve checked a few times this week where it normally lives, and it would appear there’s nobody at … at … at the … the thingy. SEE?

I thought that this working while pregnant thing would be a breeze. You know, nurture growing fetus, eat a great deal, continue career, pop one out, be back at work two months later after a bit of a holiday. I suspect it’s not going to work out quite that way.

Ferinstance, there have been a few times this last week when I have found myself rushing to and fro at work and then stopping in the middle of a hallway and wondering what I was actually doing there. I’ve taken to muttering write it down, write it down, in a rather dark and sinister tone and then completely forgetting what it was that I was meant to be writing down to remember.

This week has snowballed into a week of Telling People. After only just finding out ourselves last week that you were making your presence felt, Monday at work for me was very tough. I felt very ill, and sad, and happy, and was prone to snapping at my lovely colleagues then holding back tears at the thought of you and bunnies dancing around in a field somewhere (I don’t know either). So by Tuesday I’d told my boss, who’d sussed that something was up anyway, and he was the first of many to be delighted that you were on your way.

All of your grandparents are either reeling in shock from the news or thoroughly chuffed or both. Your Aussie Nana, who’ll be here in September, shrieked something incomprehensible, then proceeded to tell me how delighted she was. This, it seems, is the thing with grandparents. And you have five-and-a-half, so I very much doubt you’ll be lacking for much.

I have continued eating a lot of food in my quest to build you a spine and some nice healthy internal organs. I have also continued eating because when I eat I don’t feel quite so nauseous, but from what I’ve read, this might change. It is apparently possible to feel like being sick and be hungry at the same time. I am not looking forward to this day. I have also continued eating because I like food, and one thing I am liking very much about pregnancy is that it is basically a license to eat what your body tells you to, which at this current milisecond includes chicken with cashew nuts, apple juice and steak pasties. This will probably change. Last week I inhaled a whopper with extra cheese in about five seconds and it was the best burger I’ve ever tasted, and then I had to wee. The next day the smell of burgers made me want to puke.

Ah, the joys of weeing in a city where you don’t know the locations of all the public loos. My advice? Stick to shopping centres. There’s always at least one in there. Also, wee just before leaving point A, then immediately again upon arrival at point B. Do not worry about farting in public (like I ever did!). When you get as backed up as I am, you take anything you can get.

Your father and I have been talking about what to call you other than ‘It’ or ‘Sproglet’. Nothing has been nailed down just yet.

Last night you and I went to our first rock concert together (shall I get us registered for Glastonbury next year, do you think?) - White Stripes at Leeds Harewood House. Rain poured down all day but held off for the Stripeys, who were magnificent. I didn’t even really mind being sober. I saw quite a few cool mums and dads with their kids there. I hope one day us three will go to see music together, too.