I had this post all ready to go. I was about to hit publish but the words didn’t sit right. It didn’t feel like the most honest way of announcing this major news.
So I’m starting again.
In February after a few weeks of suspicion I found out I was pregnant. This was not planned. But I was still happy as I’d been thinking that maybe I’d like another one eventually and the timing was OK. Our money was running out and we would have to go home soon anyway.
So we waited until 12 weeks and told our families. Even though I’m 32 I still felt like a little tramp telling my Dad I was pregnant. Eww. But awkward conversations aside everyone was happy and gushing about as they seem to do when a baby is expected.
So yeah, I’m feeling fine. Heavy and uncomfortable but fine. There are many questions – if you’ve ever been pregnant you might know how these go. There is one that occurs frequently, and I’m at an odds to answer honestly.
‘Are you excited?’
Seriously, no. I am not one bit excited. Now I know I sound like an ungrateful toad who got pregnant with the click of a finger but it’s the truth. Excited no, apprehensive yes.
People look at me funny when I say that. But why can’t we talk honestly about one of the most terrifying occurrences in a woman’s life. Why do we always have to be pretend to be so effing grateful when we are truly, honestly shit-scared?
And there is so much to be scared of. Not just surviving pregnancy – which is awful by the way, no miracle glow here. I just feel fat, slightly breathless and pissed off at having to buy new bras with 48 hooks in the back to keep my aching boobs from sagging.
But primarily it’s the labour and birth which petrifies me. I had a horror first birth and have no wish to relive any part of it. After 14 hours of active labour I would have happily accepted death rather than have to endure one more contraction. The look of relief on my husband’s face when my son was born will never leave me. He truly thought he would lose one or both of us.
As a public healthcare patient I cannot request an elective c-section so it’s likely I’ll have to endure hours of torturous labour – although this time I wont be so magnanimous as to say no to the epidural. No way.
Because this time I have so much to lose, a little boy who needs his mummy. And the thought of not coming home to him is the most terrifying thing of all.
To compound matters I’ve developed a serious addiction to binge-watching Call the Midwife on Netflix. Every night when my son goes to bed I get comfy on the couch to witness a woman enduring pure torture. Assisted by a lovely looking midwife with perfect make-up. Sometimes things go wrong.
When I have survived birth without any major complications and have a healthy baby in my arms, maybe then I’ll feel a little bit excited. Because babies are awesome, and I know my son will be a caring and nurturing big brother.
But mainly I’ll be excited that I never ever have to be pregnant again – and that in itself is cause for celebration.