I knew something was up when I got my clothes back from the laundry and there was a newborn baby outfit among them.
A few weeks later I bought something in the chemist and the assistant threw a dozen baby’s bibs into the bag for free.
From that moment on I knew my days were numbered and that Demeter, the Greek goddess of fertility would claim me sooner or later.
Yes dear reader, this mother of four is soon to become a mother of five.
Coming from a long line of very fertile women (my sister has 8 children), fertility for me is not so much a blessing as an affliction. I realise this isn't a popular statement to make, coming from a generation of women who were told that they had choices, one of which was to postpone childbirth until their thirties only to find that nature had played a cruel trick, that the thirty-something doesn't conceive as easily as the twenty-something. My heart goes out to women who struggle to conceive; it is frustrating, disheartening and utterly unfair.
However, there is a flip side to this which can be equally frustrating when a careless night out with too much champagne results in something a tad more permanent than a hangover!
So, here I am with baby number five in waiting. After the initial few days of pure, knee-buckling shock, I’m starting to adjust to my fate. Of course that’s providing it’s a girl. Our catalogue can just about accommodate another female in the house. A boy, on the other hand, is totally out of the question and should I discover another male is on the way I'll be on the phone to Madonna quicker than you can say 'forget Malawi'.
I love that scene at the end of the movie, ‘The story of us’, when Michelle Pfeifer and Bruce Willis decide, after a separation, to give their marriage another go; cue a series of touching flashbacks tracing their lives together. It goes something like this-
Bruce (obviously wearing wig) meets Michelle in college; Bruce proposes to Michelle; fun scene painting their first house, together; Michelle tells Bruce she’s pregnant; birth of baby; Michelle tells Bruce she’s pregnant again; another birth of baby; child comes into their bedroom and lisps ‘I’ve got chicken pots’ etc etc…
You get the idea. The scene is accompanied by a swelling classical guitar piece and I sob everytime I see it, over-sentimentalising my history with DH.
Unfortunately, my truth is rather less touching. If I were to run a series of clips of DH’s reaction every time I announced there was another baby on the way, it would go something like this;-
2000 Me: ‘I’m pregnant’
DH: 'Oh shit’
2002 Me: ‘Guess what.... I’m pregnant’
DH: ‘Serious? Oh jaysus....'
2004 Me: ‘I’m pregnant again’
DH: ‘Again? Hahahaha....Ah for f*cks sake…serious? Ah shit!’
2006 Me: ‘I can’t believe it, I’m pregnant again’
DH: ‘Ah jeez…no way….no way….ah shit’
2010 Me: (this time) ‘(sob) Oh my god, I’m pregnant’
DH: Oh god, ah well, another one won't make any difference at this stage.......
This last response was uncharacteristically semi-positive since I was so distraught he was obliged to take the opposing viewpoint.
I don't mean to be hard on DH, he loves each and every one of them passionately, but I can't help but think that given the choice he'd much rather it was just the two of us again. I think every man would admit to this if pushed on the subject.
I don't mean to be hard on DH, he loves each and every one of them passionately, but I can't help but think that given the choice he'd much rather it was just the two of us again. I think every man would admit to this if pushed on the subject.
The children’s responses have been varied. Eight year old girl is very much looking forward to finally having a sister (I know, I know....I'll deal with that one later on).
Seven year old boy wants to know if we can call it ‘Sonic’. I said I’d think about it.
Five year old boy wants to know if it will be born with a sword. I said I rather hope it won’t.
Three year old boy lifted up my top and said ‘is there a baby in your boobies mummy?’ (which given the impressive increase in size is a fair comment actually)
There are the positives of course. Overnight I've become a one-woman detox-unit as the mere thought of alcohol makes me want to lie face down on a cool tiled floor and wait for the nausea to pass. And as DH indulges in his nightly tipple, I look on with contempt, pitying his pathetic enslavement to the bottle (I know from past experience that this aversion will last until exactly one minute after delivery whereupon I shall be yelling for the Champagne).
However, the negatives are several. The sure knowledge that my girth will increase, regardless of what I eat or how many times I do sit-ups, is a soul-destroying surety. And my criteria for a passable outfit will dwindle to what I can wrestle myself into, as opposed to whether it is attractive, suitable or appropriate. During my first pregnancy, in my wisdom I decided to eschew maternity wear, reasoning that I would only be pregnant once and so it would be a waste of money anyhow. A glowing example of false economy if ever there was one.
But the biggest issue for me is the impending childbirth itself. An event as inevitable as death and as unavoidable as a photo of Posh in a copy of 'OK magazine'. No matter which way you look at it, there is only one obstacle between my unborn child and this earth, and that is a hard truth to live with.
I'm not particularly squeamish, I rarely visit the doctor and consider myself fairly robust. However, childbirth for me is akin to a slow, sadistic execution. The best comparison I can come up with is that scene at the end of Braveheart when Mel Gibson is drawn and quartered in front of a baying crowd. It's like that, but worse.
And I know its a cliche, but I truly believe that were men to give birth the population would dwindle to a few hundred, half of whom would be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.
And I know its a cliche, but I truly believe that were men to give birth the population would dwindle to a few hundred, half of whom would be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.
And a tour of the delivery suite is as tempting as a guided tour of an abattoir. I am not fooled by the plastic pot plants and peach walls, those places are barbaric.
As I approach the three month mark, I'm busy letting people know of my condition lest they think I've merely let myself go and can't be bothered to hold in my stomach. Of course it's all downhill from now on but I shall sit tight, exploit the rare love being shown to my liver, and enjoy the ride.
