I woke up on Saturday raring to pick up our pram and car seat. I didn’t know how symbolic these objects were or that they’d freak us out.
When I mentioned the uni-boob scenario the other day, it was an attempt at being amusing. My mother read it and all she could think was: “Good grief, my child needs to be clothed!” She speedily got in touch, in her worried mother way – a way I shall soon learn, no doubt.
I tweeted about this video a while ago because I think Valerie Stone Hawthorne’s blog, The Mompetition, is a brilliantly humourous and affirming depiction of motherhood.
The night out begins with me ransacking my wardrobe to find something that still fits over the epic mass of my breasts without smooshing them together in the horror that is uni-boob.
When I told people this weekend that we were going to a home birth group discussion around the theme of attitudes to pain, they looked at Laurence as if feeling for his pain.
I’ve been thinking about the relationship between mental health and motherhood ever since I realised nine years ago that what I was experiencing was depression. I’ve worried that depression would make me an unsupportive friend and wife, and a frightening mother. But I’ve also known I don’t want it to determine how I’ll live my life.
I don’t have a problem with it. I understand that immigration needs to be controlled… What I always find hard, though, is feeling a little bit like a criminal going through the process or at least like I’m begging to stay here – just a teeny weeny bit.
As a younger teen I often bragged that I would never get married and certainly never have children. Mostly, I got a kick out of making controversial statements. I also considered myself a feminist (still do) and naively felt that this was at odds with pursuing family life. But mainly, I saw marriages suffering all around me, with children caught in the middle, and it scared the hell out of me.
I thought I’d better not come anywhere near this space today. Otherwise the moaning (not the good kind) would be shocking.
I’m not sure where people get the idea that a pregnant woman’s belly is an open access area. It’s almost as if they think that now that there’s a baby visibly in there, it’s no longer actually attached to rest of the body. My bump might as well have a “Touch me, love me, lick me” sign posted on it and marked spots for randomers to stick their territorial flags.
Waking up in a hurry is not one of my strengths as Laurence could tell you. There’s lots of moaning, groaning, dozing, jolting and complaining involved. In between all of that, I start checking my iPhone (bad habit, I know – it prolongs the process!). But yesterday, a Facebook message is what got me out of bed, fully alert and energized with a heady mix of confusion, amusement and righteous anger – make that rage.
Whenever I mention that I obsessively watch One Born Every Minute, someone wonders if this is my way of masochistically preparing myself for the inevitable.