The pregnancy post

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Like every woman I was convinced I would be pregnant forever. As week 37 and the 38 passed, I resigned myself to a life of never sleeping comfortably and always having to wee. I cried pretty much every night. I bitched and moaned and was generally cross with the entire world. The idea of it ending was so inconceivable that I was the most deeply unpleasant person to live with in those last few weeks. Carrying babies is hard bloody work.

The world will have you believe that when you discover you are pregnant that you are going to shout it from the roof tops. You will be expected to swan around in beautiful drapery (aka, afford the Hatch collection), eat cupcakes without face bloat, develop impossibly perfect skin, grow rapunzeline hair and genuinely manifest into a living, breathing, glowing goddess. In reality, we know it is a very different experience. The little flutters of week 17 and the ripples on the skin at 20 weeks are all well and good until you have over 8 pounds of baby fighting your internal organs for room. I now look at my tiny son’s arms in legs in a fascinated horror as I can now equate all that flesh and bone to the thing that was pounding on my ribs.

Whilst this pregnancy was by no means the worst, I certainly had my share of issues. I am now somewhat of an expert in the ins and outs of the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve and what happens when babies squash it. I can’t pronounce or spell Merlagia paresthetica but I can tell you that when said baby causes it, you will not be able to walk more than about 100 yards without being in unfathomable burning pain (and this comes from someone who just gave birth). For the last four months of my pregnancy, my view was pretty much reduced to my left bedroom wall. With the only magical cure on offer being ‘have a baby’, by week 37 I was getting pretty low. I am going to be honest, my desire for my pregnancy to end was just as much about being curious about meeting this baby as it was about being able to walk again. After giving birth the midwives asked me how I managed to push out a baby so quickly. “Desperate not to be pregnant anymore” was the only answer I had.

They say that your baby chooses to come into this world when you are ready to let your baby go. In the end he came 5 days early. I think he probably knew I couldn’t wait any longer. I like to think that it is the babies who choose to let us go. And of course, of course he was absolutely worth it. 

NB) As pregnancy was such a beastly time, I don’t really have any photographic documentation of those nine months- I was not in the mood to have my picture taken. However, I do have this rather smashing photo of us both in stripes which we can all pretend is a giant symbol of our 9 month symbiosis and not just a cute picture of my lovely baby.

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