Friday 8 May 2009

The indignity of it all.

So, I’m in my last month of pregnancy and it’s not pretty. Within an hour of getting up this morning I had done the ole pee-while-you-sneeze trick and my boobs had leaked everywhere. And it’s not as if I have that many spare changes of clothes - nothing fits!!!!

Not only do I look like I’ve swallowed my yoga ball but you should see the monstrosities that were once my boobs. I’m currently at an F-cup (sigh I miss my C’s) and if the last pregnancy is anything to go by I’ll be dragging out the H-cup scaffolding in a few weeks.

I’m also discovering the joys of haemorrhoids and chronic 24/7 indigestion. I fear this baby will be peppermint flavoured as I singlehandedly quadruple Gaviscon’s European sales figures. Not to mention the mood swings that turn me from sobbing wretch to eye-gouging demon and back, in a flash and for no particular reason.

And look at what I have to look forward to in labour: internal exams by the entire hospital staff, pooping all over the labour ward (himself thinks this part is hilarious and still slags me over the last time), and stitches that I’ll have to pee on!!!

'What did you expect?' You might ask…..
'You only had 6 months between pregnancies, surely you knew all about the upcoming discomforts?'

But here’s the thing…….

There is some fundamental wiring problem in the female brain when it comes to pregnancy. Once the birth is over and you are holding your little bundle of joy all memories of morning sickness, epic labours, stitches, piles and all the other wonders magically disappear.

Two months after giving birth to crazypixie I found myself gazing teary-eyed at pregnant women and muttering my to (ever-patient) himself, ‘I’d love to be pregnant again.’

Four months later, I’m pregnant, feeling crap and moaning (to slightly less patient) himself that this pregnancy is much worse than the last and that I don’t remember feeling so sick and hormonal. He replies, ‘it’s the same.’

At eight months I’m thinking maybe two kids will be plenty but every now and then I joke to himself (who’s trying to dredge up any remaining patience) ‘sure I could be pregnant again next Christmas!’

The reply?

‘Well, it won’t be mine!’

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