Losing the will to live [ie maternity shopping]

‘Oh cripes’ I silently shriek as I pass a full-length mirror while browsing in Marks & Spencers. Here I was thinking that I was holding up well [er, well enough] on the clothes front. To date I’ve pretty much managed to squeeze into my regular clothes with a few minor amendments. Clearly I was deluded. I had no idea that I had been exposing my midriff to all and sundry. Did my top shrink in the wash?

Now I know that Demi Moore posed nude while with child and she looked fab. But said Ms Moore was not handicapped by folds of pre pregnancy blubber. OK, time to confront another milestone of fear…maternity wear shops.

I drag Louise with me during lunch break for support. She holds up a hanger with a pair of hideous pink gingham dungarees. ‘Oh you’ve got to have these’ she cracks up, holding her sides with glee. I examine the sheer volume and weight of material with horror and retort defiantly.’ Er Louise I know I’m preggers but I will never ever fill these’. ‘Haha’ she says ‘I remember you saying the same about the training bra your Mum bought you when we were twelve’. Louise is laughing so much that she is holding onto the rail for support. ‘Ok then, big girl how about these little numbers? She pulls out a gargantuan pair of denim jeans. ‘Or this sexy number?’ She hands me a bra, which is cup size zz. It could contain a pair of watermelons with ease.

‘Louise, I brought you here as my comfort blanket, not as lunchtime entertainment for a bitter and twisted spinster. I am upset enough at the prospect of losing my waist and doubling my butt size without you pissing yourself laughing at my predicament!’. Louise looks sheepish for about 5 seconds, before she squeals with laughter at the knicker rail. ‘Oh you’ve got to see these, honestly Daisy!’

Get used to knowing where the nearest loo is at all times

Its fab to be back in the land of the living. I feel great and even though its 11pm; I have no intention of leaving Ginny & Tom’s fancy dress engagement party.

They’ve just bought their first house and decided to throw a wild party before they decorate. Its got fantastic retro-swirly carpets and chipboard wallpaper with damp patches. My favourite feature is the little hatch in the wall so you can shout your order into the kitchen from the sitting room.

I have come as Dolly Parton [obviously] and Special Bloke has come as Elvis. Ginny’s lethal punch has kicked in and the most unlikely pairings of celebrities are dancing with each other. A Bay City Roller is chatting up Madonna while Boy George boogies with Buzz Light-year. I’m on the 7up and have been warned by Ginny and Tom to avoid the cupcakes and jelly shapes because they have er…’stuff’ in it.

Oh bugger, there’s a massive queue outside the one and only loo. ‘We think Miss Piggy and Indiana Jones have got it together in there’ the girl ahead smiles knowingly. Well bully for them. I’m DESPERATE! ‘I scoot outside and recky the small patio and postage stamp of grass with the intention of relieving myself in the open air. Small groups of smokers occupy the well-lit garden. Bugger. I have to pee. Now!

I spy an empty tin of pineapple chunks; grab it and run into the utility room. I lock the door and sigh as I squat down and pee to my hearts content into the empty tin. Ah heaven! I head out holding my produce at arms length ahead of me. Before I even close the door, Boy George has whipped the pineapple tin out of my hand and poured it into the punch. I am horrified!! I follow him over and try to prevent him from drinking it but he is already swigging heartily. Now I know that some people actually drink their own pee for health reasons. It is on this basis that I don’t phone the toxicology department at the nearest hospital. That and well the sheer mortification of fessing up that I peed into a can in the utility room. I’d never hear the end of it.

I make a point of finding Special Bloke to warn him off the punch. He turns around; munching a cupcake and necking back a glass of punch. I say nothing and just smile faintly. I am such a bad person. What kind of mother will I make at all?

Scan time!

At last its time to have my first scan.

So here I am plucked, waxed, showered with no idea what to expect from my first blind date er.. appointment with the obstetrician. I have drunk about 2 litres of water so that we will get a good picture of the baby. I am excited like a child waiting for Santa Claus to come. Its also a bit nerve racking…What if the poor mite has some illness, deformity or Special Bloke’s aunt’s craggy nose? I am sooo looking forward to seeing this new person. I’m hoping it will make the growing baby more real to me. I still can’t believe I’m going to be someone’s Mum.

I arrive into the reception and my heart sinks at the queue of couples nervously awaiting scans. I have waited this long to see my baby so I can contain my excitement but I’m not sure I can contain my bladder. I sit down, cross-legged obviously and try not to embarrass myself. A Dad to-be gets up to the water cooler and pours himself a glass of water. It rumbles, bubbles and trickles noisily. Every woman waiting glares at his insensitivity and one woman bolts to the toilet, fighting back the tears.

Finally it’s our turn. I bound into the room, to meet a very bored looking nurse. She takes my details and blood pressure, with only the occasional comment [when I stood on the scales ‘hmm you’d want to keep an eye on that’]. Then she requests my urine sample. I explain that I didn’t realize that I was supposed to bring a sample. Furthermore, I explain that I cannot provide a sample now as my pregnancy book clearly states that a full bladder is needed to ensure a clear scan picture. The nurse folds her arms, rolls her eyes and roughly hands me a specimen tube as she looks at her watch and points to the toilet. I want to protest that its not my fault they didn’t think to pre-warn me to bring a sample but I am very aware that she will be taking blood from me shortly and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.

I scuttle to the toilet with tears in my eyes. It is just so unfair that I have drank a ridiculous amount of liquid, traveled across town, waited for eons in a cramped waiting room and now I have to literally pee away my chances of a clear scan picture. I wonder how many other hormonal women cry at her hands ever day. I psyche myself to return to her coven. Special Bloke puts a hand on my shoulder and says’ Don’t let Nurse Villain the Vile get you down. We’re going to see our angel in a few minutes’. And shortly afterwards we do…….

Dr Slaphack greets us warmly, scans my vitals and invites me to hop on to the table. I pull off my top and pull down my elaticated waistband to knee level much to the surprise of Dr.Slaphack. Apparently he requires a much smaller workspace of bellybutton to the tip of my knickers. Blushing, I cover up as Special Bloke disloyally mutters some smart aleck comment under his breath.

He is unperturbed by my half full bladder and rubs some jelly on my tummy. I shudder as my tummy flab wobbles under his touch. If I am this body conscious now how will I manage during labour? I am suddenly interrupted by the sound of thundering hooves.’ That is your baby’s heartbeat. It’s a good, strong beat which is what we like to hear’ he grins. I look at Special Bloke and we smile proudly at each other. He points out the head, spine, legs and arms. Gradually my eyes get their bearings and I can navigate the baby’s bits and pieces. I am thrilled when the baby moves its arms and I splutter ‘Hello baby’. Even though it only looks slightly more human than a satellite weather map I can’t stop smiling. Dr. Slaphack tells us he is happy with the baby’s progress so far and I have to restrain myself from planting a great big kiss on his cheek. His name does not suit him at all and I silently nickname him Dr. Stork.We head out the door with a little pic of our amazing creation and a feeling of bonhomie, wonder and awe…goodwill to all men..excluding Nurse Villain the Vile. I sincerely pray she contracts a bad case of thrush.

Wishing it would show!

Couldn't resist popping into Mothercare for a quick browse during lunch break. I head for the maternity section and am appalled by the sheer size of the clothes.

I am quite sure that no matter how many curlywurlys I eat I will not fill these tents. Ever! I cannot help noticing quite a large section on maternity knickers. For the life of me, I cannot understand why regular knickers will not do the job. Maybe it makes sense if you like to wear a very exotic, kinky type of lingerie. I don't know the mind boggles. I feel like a bit of a fraud browsing as I don't look pregnant [although I do look like I ate all the pies!] .

I hightail out of the maternity wear sharpish and take a peek at the baby gear section. For such little critters they do seem to need a lot of kit. I don't buy anything but I do paw a lot of goods and stare wistfully into space trying to imagine what Peanut will look like. Wonder if it will look like Special Bloke or like me? Or maybe like his moustached Aunty Ethel? Crap! Hope it doesn't get my bum or it will have a life ahead of it trying to find jeans that fit on the hips while similtaneouly fitting on the waist.Oops must have been chatting to myself aloud[gulp]. A couple of shoppers are staring at me and the security guard is eyeing me suspiciously. 'Are you going to take those nipple protectors ?'asks the assistant loudly. I'm so ruffled I buy the little pack although I have no idea what they are for.

I go and buy a pair of outrageously, sexy, impractical pair of fluffy knickers for the price of a small pony....., just in case I am missing out.I don't want to resent Peanut for curtailing my underwear habits in months to come.

I try on my sexy knicks in front of my bedroom full length mirror to check out the effect.Curiousity gets the better of me and I open the little pack of nipple protectors and put a couple on.I look like a poor man's Madonna in her pre-tweed days of conical boobs and tassels.
Special Bloke catches sight of my floorshow and not implausibly thinks I'm in the mood for love. He beams hopefully,'I've been reading that a lot of women experience amazing sensitivity during sex while pregnant'. Its vaguely flattering that he is still interested given my erratic mood swings, bloated tummy and [how can I put this delicately] my trumpeting rear end BUT my interest in all things carnal has died. I am more interested in ensuring that nothing is blocking my route to the loo so I can be sick in peace. What a sexy, sexy jezebel hippo I have become!

Naming the foetus

I have developed a new addiction to replace alcohol. I am insatiable for knowledge about pregnancy and how the baby is developing. Strictly speaking its a cluster of cells known as an embryo that will graduate and become a proud foetus. I can't carry on calling it a foetus though. It sounds like I'm talking about frogspawn or a biological experiment. One of my pregnancy books says that the embryo is about the size of a peanut by now. From that moment on my little cluster of cells becomes known as 'Peanut'.

'Well I've solved the baby naming dilemma then', I announce beaming.

'Isn't it a bit early for that?' asks Special Bloke disinterestedly as he strains to see the T.V.

I move out of the way. 'Peanut!' I smile.'Peanut is the baby's name!'

'Great! You beauty!' yells Special Bloke as he leaps off the sofa.

'I think its great too!' I yell, thrilled that Special Bloke is as happy as I am.

He hugs me and spins me around. 'If they keep this up, we'll be in the final! What a goal! He kisses me.

Peanut it is!

Its important to keep fluids high

Louise bangs on the window 'Come on Mrs. we're meeting Jane in five minutes!'
Jane is her cousin who is also pregnant. She's a few months ahead of me so Louise suggested we meet up for lunch.

I can't help noticing that Jane is sitting on what appears to be an inflated, hollow cushion thing. I try not to stare but it does look a bit odd. 'Its to relieve my piles' whispers Jane. I must have looked a bit blank because she laughs and says, 'You don't want to know!'
'When do we get them?' I ask nervously.
'Hopefully never because they hurt like hell. Basically they're swellings that grow on your rear end' she states matter of factly with a sigh.
'And can they not give you anything to get rid of them?' I ask aghast.
'I'm taking, well inserting' she chuckles' suppositories but I'm not sure they are really helping. Then I put ice-packs on and try to keep my rear end in the air to reduce swelling- which is easier said than done I can tell you'.
'You know the more I learn about pregnancy the more I think young girls should shadow a pregnant woman for two weeks. Im sure that unwanted teenage pregnancy rates would plummet.'
After lunch Jane reaches for an iron supplement sachet and empties into her orange juice.
I reach into my handbag and neck a couple of slugs of anti-heartburn liquid. Louise is amused.
We touch on the dreaded subject of labour. Jane has already visited the delivery room with her ante-natal class. 'I just hope I don't have a screamer next to me when I'm trying to concentrate on my breathing', she giggles.
'How do you mean? Why would you have a screamer next to you ? I ask nervously.
'Well at St Finns they have two mums to a delivery suite as they call it.'
'What? Thats ridiculous! I don't want anyone else in there. Giving birth is not a spectator sport. Knowing my luck we will be next to Mr. and Mrs. Sociable, who will flick in and out, updating us and shoving their video camera in my face or up my...OH I can't bear to think about this'.

'I know and there's usually just a flimsy shower curtain with dodgy hooks between you and them. Mad isn't it! My sister tells me you won't care on the day. I hope she's right,'Jane smiles uncertainly.
Jane offers me a lift as its on her way home.I am about to climb into the passenger seat when I notice a thirty six pack of canned Guinness. 'Is there something you want to tell me Jane?' I grin quizzically. 'You have me! Nah my iron count is lousy. The doc says I may need iron injections which are meant to be quite painful. Then I was listening to a radio phone in show and quite a few callers said that drinking Guinness boosts your iron count. So I though I'd give it a go.'

'Fair enough', I giggle 'Its important to keep your fluids high!'.

Cravings

‘So have you had any weird cravings at all Daisy?’ Louise asked conversationally over dinner. ‘No. Actually I haven’t. I think is it one of those many myths surrounding pregnancy’. I respond. Special Bloke guffaws loudly and nearly chokes on his fork in disbelief. ‘Daisy, you are such a fibber! Look at this! ’He opens a cupboard to reveal rather a lot of bumper packs of fizzy cola bottle sweets. Louise and her new bloke explode with laughter. ‘And look at this!’ He opens the fridge, which displays at least ten large tubs of peach flavoured yogurt. Then Special Bloke rubs his hands and performs a type of victory dance as he opens 2 trays in the freezer, which are packed to capacity with ice-lollies. I grin sheepishly and wonder if the baby is getting enough nutrition from my bizarre diet.

No Guilt!

Now I don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill but I have definitely expanded on top. I’m sure I didn’t sleep walk to the nearest plastic surgeon last night and demand silicon implants. I like my new shape but I’m not entirely gone on the blue cheese vein effect.

Hitherto, I have not been exactly flatchested but if I tell you I skip the section on fashion pages about how to minimize your cleavage, you’ll get the picture. I didn’t think anyone else would notice my new buxom shape but as I walked around town at lunchtime a definite trend emerged. Men fixate on my chest and then guiltily look away when I catch their eyes. This has never happened to me before and I’m enjoying the novelty.

I am no longer throwing up, hurrah! I still get nauseous when I’m tired or hungry. The only way to get relief is to keep grazing. As a result, I am piling on the pounds and it’s getting tougher to close the top button on my jeans. For once I am delighted to get up on the scales and see my weight soar…no guilt!

Get used to smelling differently

Someone has switched the volume up on my nose. Everything, absolutely everything smells weird. Bananas smell of slightly sour milk. Making it past the deli counter in the supermarket without retching has become my own personal bush tucker trial.

I woke up last night in a right state, ran to the window and stuck my head out and breathed in great big gulps of fresh air. What on God’s earth is that smell coming from downstairs? Holding my nose, I run to the kitchen to discover Special Bloke making himself a post pub fish finger buttie. It smells like he’s fried a whole catch of smelly, pongy, well used gym shoes and well worn footie vests from a teenage school team. Eughhh! ‘Open a window, please. Have you been smoking in here?’ I demand. ‘I just had one, because its bucketing rain out there. Have a heart.’ He mumbles. I am furious. He tries to give me a hug and kiss by way of an apology, but his breath stinks of hops, barley and fags.

I push him off overcome by the stink, rising nausea in my throat and lets be honest. …sheer jealousy that he can happily spend a night sinking pints and puffing away while I get intimately acquainted with the toilet bowl. I storm off to bed with tears in my eyes and a profound despair that I will never feel normal again.

Your world [and tummy] turns upside down

‘Have you tried crackers first thing in the morning? Dry toast? Ice-lolls?Acu-pressure wrist pads? Meditating? Drinking 7up with salt? Smear yourself with camel dung and pull your nasal hairs out one by one?’

Yes, now feck off the lot of you and let me be sick and miserable in peace. And if one more person tells me to ‘take my mind off being sick’, I will personally wrap their tongue around their neck and spin them around on their behind.
Feck’n nausea. I want to get off this whole pregnancy carousel. Hormonal? Moi? And your point is?

Can’t believe I can’t take anything. Hitherto, if I’ve had a cramp I’ve taken a pill, headache? I have not taken a dry cracker or piece of toast. It seems a very inadequate prescription.

I must be the only woman to lose weight while pregnant. I never really got quadratic equations at school …but even I can see that there is something slightly askew with the equation below.
Normal body weight + bump should not be < normal body weight. The odd thing is that when I plea my case to the medical folk, they smile knowingly and say ‘And I’ll bet you have a funny metallic taste in your mouth too’. Yes you pack of know-alls I do, but funnily enough I already knew this. What I don’t know is how to survive the next couple of months. Apparently it’s a sign that all is well. Mmmmmm I’m beginning to think this pregnancy lark is one big design fault, that is in need of a radical overhaul. My proposal is that conception stays more or less the same [bar bloke farting immediately afterwards and rolling over for a snore fest] ; embryo develops for a few days. Mother-to be burps out the bundle of cells and deposits it in a microwave where it is nurtured and fed. After a couple of hours, out pops babs. No worries. No bloomn’ nausea.

& doing a little light exercise

The guilt books also insist that you ‘continue’ to exercise. My calf muscles are still in shock from a week’s ski-ing to even consider exercise. I do take note that I should be doing some pelvic floor exercises to stop me pee-ing when I laugh. By co-incidence, I listen to a radio chat show, with cabbies phoning in, alleging that middle-aged women frequently urinate in the back of the cabs after a night out on the town. This is news to me. I find the instructions immediately and try to understand how to do pelvic floor exercises without cheating. I grab a pillow and plump it under my head. That’s better. Ow, what’s that under my elbow? Oh look it’s the remote control. Wonder what’s on? Oh Eastenders. How many more years have I got before I’m technically middle-aged? Anyhow life’s too short and I’m too tired.

Get used to eating sensibly

Lilly from Accounts, phones to say she read a piece of Swedish research that babies in the womb love chocolate. It makes them really happy and it has calcium in it. Dark chocolate even has iron in it. Fantastic news. None of the pregnancy books mention this. My guilt books are full of colour photos of herring roll mops and mackerel with sad eyes. Now even if I wasn’t feeling nauseous, the sight of both these species in my fridge would make me a bit green around the gills. At the moment, I am struggling to keep a glass of water down not to mention the quarter ton of fruit, exotic, steamed vegetables and iron rich red meat every Mother-to-be apparently makes time to devour. I have become a major convert of fizzy cola bottles and raw celery sticks which both seem to stave off the nausea attacks.

Forget Trinny & Susannah.Magic Knickers are out

I’d love to stay and chat but I am soooooo bored. Do you have any idea how boring this conversation is? Are work nights really this dull without alcohol? How do teetotalers stick this on a regular basis? Don’t get me wrong. I have about as much interest in having a drink as having sex. But I’d love something to get me in the party mood. I have no energy. I am dull, dull as ditch water. I’m not feeling so great all of a sudden. I need to sleep..or maybe faint.

Yikes. What happened? Fiona is telling me to take it easy and ordering me to breathe in and out of a paper bag. It smells of fizzy cola bottles. Oh that’s better. She loosens my bra and asks me if I’m feeling a bit better. ‘I guess its time to stop wearing those magic knickers and tummy minimisers’, I confess. She phones Special Bloke, who arrives like a knight in shining amour.

‘Poor baby’ he soothes. ‘Was it the heat in here?’ ‘No’ pipes up Fiona’ It was the magic knickers!’. Special Bloke chuckles and throws me into the car like an unruly child. Despite the late hour, I insist that Special Bloke finds a shop that sells pic’n’mix fizzy cola bottles. We get lucky on shop number 6 and buy half a pound of them. Bloomn’ luverly!

Get used to telling little white lies

I need some more excuses why I am not drinking and want to fall asleep at 8.30pm. I’ve done the old ‘anti-biotics’ excuse to death. I’ve played the ‘health-kick’ card; the ‘not for me. I’m driving’ routine’.

I may have blown my cover when I refused a very nice glass of red wine and announced ‘I’ve given up drink for lent’. My colleagues exploded with laughter, knowing my blatant disinterest in all such matters. A few eyes did wander down to my belly and give me a very knowing smile. Oh I am such a pathetic liar. I feel like I’ve been ‘out’-ed. Its too much hassle and it takes too much energy to keep up my cover. ‘Ok, you bunch of piss-heads, I am as some of you have guessed – pregnant’.

Suddenly, there’s a flurry of activity. Money changes hands and there is much backslapping and congratulating Fiona who had been the first to suspect. Those bastards have been betting on my predicament for a whole fortnight. Fiona says I kept rubbing my tummy, staring into space and refused my favourite smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel on Friday. Something was up. It feels good to tell them and I get hugged, squeezed and kissed until I’m exhausted. ‘I don’t mind you lot knowing but I will murder anyone who tells Mildred the Maggot’.

Choose your obstetrician ....fast!

Having agonized for a week about which hospital and Doctor to select, I eventually select Dr. Brown. He practices out of a good local hospital and they have free parking.

‘Hello, I’d like to book an appointment with Dr. Brown. I’m due in November,’ I smile proudly at how organized I sound. ‘November this year?’ comes the disinterested reply. ‘Ahm, yes, this year’ I confirm slightly confused. ‘I’m sorry Dr. Brown is booked out for the next two years’, she cackles without the slightest trace of empathy.

Stunned silence follows. ‘Hang on just a cotton-pickn’ moment. You’re telling me that you have no free slots for two years? I was under the impression that it only takes 9 months to produce the child door to door, so to speak. Now, I’m 4 weeks pregnant – tops and you’re telling me I’ve missed the boat ….Already???? ‘I boom incredulously. ‘That’s sooo unfair. For once I’ve not dilly dallied [my nickname is Dillydally Daisy]. How do others get a slot? Seriously. Do they have a bath, shave their legs, slap on a bit of lippie and phone their obstetrician …just in case they get lucky in some nightclub and meet the man of their dreams who they just might decide is ‘The One’ and settle down with three years from now? Is that how it works.

‘I’ll tell you what, ’she whispers conspiratorially. ‘If Dr. Brown gets a cancellation, I’ll call you straight back.’ The next day she calls me back. Dr. Brown can’t take me but his colleague Dr. Slaphack can. We’re in. ‘Great, thanks’ I put the phone down and it dawns on me what she meant by a ‘cancellation’.

It’s coming home to me that this little life is fragile and …oh I don’t even want to think about it.

Choose hospital / home birth

Mildred, my battle-axe boss has headed off on some high-powered jolly to New York for a whole week. Fantastic. MFDs [Mildred Free Days] put everyone in great mood. Its considered silly in the extreme to take holidays when battleaxe is away, cos work becomes a temporary haven of wit, fun and gossip. I was just sipping a smoothie with my feet on my desk…and well the position made me think about labour, somehow. Anyway, I had this great idea that I’d have babs at home, with candles, music and set up a snack trolley, loaded with high energy snacks like doughnuts, smoothies and curlywurlys.
Ooh wonder if theres any info on the net about it. Wow! Oh this is interesting. You can hire birthing pools and everything. Brilliant. Oh and you can buy heavy-duty plastic flooring so the blood doesn’t stain the floor. What???
Hold on…. Special Bloke and myself already have heated discussions about leaving dirty dishes on top of the worktop, instead of going the extra mile and actually putting them in the dishwasher. I can just imagine having the baby and asking Special Bloke to clean up. And he will say ‘I’ll do it later’ and I’ll get so wound up that I’ll grab the child’s umbilical chord and strangle him with it. And our poor child will witness the darker side of its parents and fear for its life. Well that’s one decision made anyhow – it will be a hospital birth.

Visiting the Doc

‘Is this a planned pregnancy?’ enquires Dr. Boyd casually. Hmmm, I muse. ‘Well I’m not sure how to answer that.

Planning is all about foresight, research, logistics; thinking through all eventualities and developing concrete plans, isn’t it? But we didn’t do any of that stuff. We didn’t compare our astrology charts; consider our finances[our long term financial strategy is to win the lottery];we didn’t even buy an ovulation prediction kit. We just went to Louise’s most excellent cocktail party and I got a special prize for inventing the best tasting concoction. Anyway we met this couple that’ve been trying to have kids for 7 years and it got us thinking that maybe we should get on with it. So if you’re asking if we had unprotected sex on purpose, the answer is yes. But we didn’t think it would happen the second we thought about it.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then’ says a weary looking Dr. Boyd. Now are there any illnesses in either of your families, we should know about? ‘Like what I ask?’ ‘Well, is there a history of heart trouble, diabetes, anything that might affect the baby really?’ ‘I don’t know, I’ll have to get back to you’ I feel like I’ve forgotten to do my revision for an oral biology exam and am clearly disappointing my teacher. I realize I haven’t a clue what medical peculiarities run in Special Bloke’s family. Up to this point, it never occurred to me the baby might inherit features from his family. This opens up a whole other box of anxieties.

‘Right, now which medical insurance option do you have Daisy?’ ‘Um, not sure’ I reply hoping I did renew my annual subscription and didn’t just stuff the bill with the others on the overflowing mantelpiece. ‘Which hospital do you wish to attend? Which Doctor would you prefer?’ I’m at a loss. How am I meant to answer this stuff? You might as well ask me to discuss the finer points of nuclear physics. I have no idea how to even start collecting this data. Dr Boyd issues me with a booklet and some telephone numbers. She suggests I ask around about Obstetricians. ‘Who ever you decide to go with, phone and book them immediately’ she warns.

Having been such a dismal failure on all the quiz questions, I’m positively relieved when we move onto the practical tests. I produce the requisite amount of pee, despite the completely impractical shape of the collecting jar and I don’t even wince when she takes blood. [I don’t like needles but its a relief to get something right]. ‘Right, that’s it for now. And Daisy, I hardly need mention that cocktails are out’.

But its still a secret, right?

Post holiday, I meet my pal Louise for a quick catch up. Louise is on her soapbox….
‘I’m soooo sick of spending my hard earned cash to buy tiny outfits for tots who are too little to appreciate the gesture. Then you end up wasting an afternoon goo-ing over a non-descript baby and getting stuck in a corner with someone’s in-bred cousin who only gets invited to funerals and christenings. I wouldn’t mind but you never get to talk to your pal. And if you do, you’re treated to a blow-by-blow account of her labour. I’m sick of the whole kid/christening thing! Tell me you’re not pregnant!’ she eyeballed me critically.
I took a deep sigh, composed myself and was about to respond appropriately that children were a pain and parents are boring wastes of space….I must have left a fraction of a second too long. Busted. Louise recoiled in horror.’Oh my God’, you’re pregnant’ she gasped accusingly. ‘Yep, guilty as charged’,I confessed sheepishly. ‘You really are’, she repeated in shock. ‘And that’s why you’re drinking water. Congratulations hon, that’s fantastic news. I didn’t mean any of that stuff about kids. Oops is that the time? I have to go and renounce the devil at my nephew’s christening. Better find this church. Call me’
Well then I had to tell the Fiona and the rest of the posse. Each pal was told the news in hushed tones and made to swear they wouldn’t tell anyone else on pain of death. Who am I kidding? Still, its lovely to share the good news and I feel very special .Of course I am now a feminine, mystical, mother-to-be type, radiating love and calm.

Bursting to share the news

We’ve decided to just tell our families about the ‘news’. I did however tell everyone on the nursery slopes in France, because I probably won’t ever see them again and I’m bursting to scream our secret. Although my overweight, spotty ski-class mate, Andreas unkindly suggested ‘You vil haf an alco baby, given ze amount you guzzle zis week’. Bloody German. I was very proud of myself for resisting the urge to knock him off the chairlift and it would have been soooo easy as the clutz got his skis stuck in the safety bar. A swift thump would have sent him flying. Effective, if not particularly maternal.
Then at dinner, our kiwi waitress, Katie scared the living daylights out of me. [Yes, I told her too, because I’ve known her for 5 days and I didn’t want her to hear on the grapevine.] ‘Oh, I’m not sure you can have any of this. Aren’t you meant to avoid unpasteurized cheese, pates, saucisse, mayonnaise, shellfish and wine? Actually, are you sure you should be still ski-ing?’
It appears that short of dropping acid and shooting up heroin, I’ve already made a gazillion mistakes and am fast becoming an unfit mother. I resolve not to tell another living soul.

Telling Special Bloke

There he is sipping his bottled beer in the afternoon sun, chilling after a hard day's ski-ing.' Go on then. Where are the suede boots? saw you admiring them and I knew you'd duck back and get them ' he teases.'No I didn't get the boots. I was doing a test' I say. 'A test?'. ' he asks quizically. 'You need a test to buy knee high boots? How very french! he laughs. 'No I wasn't buying those boots' I grin 'I was buying something at the chemist'.' Right' he says losing interest. 'I was doing a test' I nudge him and plonk the pregnancy stick in front of him on the table.He takes off his sunglasses and bless his panda-faced little face, he looks completely at sea.Lets hope our little babs Lets hope our little babs doesn’t inherit his gene for intuition.
I add another piece to the cryptic jigsaw and set down the French pregnancy test instructions. ‘Huh, whats this? Oh ….are you? are we? Oh wow! We are ? I nod, grinning.’ We are’ he whoops; picks me up in his arms and spins me around, sending chairs and bottled beer flying. ‘You clever girl..Oh wow!

Wow its positive!

Squatting over a hole in a french loo, salopettes around my ankles,whilst trying to pee on a pregnancy test stick requires a certain level of skill and dexterity I simply do not have. This is not perhaps the most dignified way of finding out whether or not you have become an official member of the pudding club.

Mission accomplished.I crinkle up my nose , rock in my ski boots and squint at the french set of instructions.I wish I had paid more attention to Mrs. Gallagher in french class. How long do I have to wait? I'm pretty sure 'cinque minutes' is 5 minutes, but perhaps its six? Either way its a long time to wait in a small dingy loo.

To be honest, I'm not even sure why I'm taking this test.Lets look at the evidence. I'm only a day late - and that could be the travel. I'm a bit tired and emotional. Who isn't after a few apres-ski gluweins and sneaky brandy chasers ? Its not hugely surprising that Im tired given that 51 weeks in the year,I excel at couch-potato-ing and then spend every waking hour 6 days a week ski-ing down mountains ...well nursery slopes anyhow.How many minutes is that for heaven's sake? Hurry up!

What if I am pregnant?Logically then, I would be someone's Mum.Aargh!I'm not adult enough to be a Mum.Technically I'm no longer a spring chicken but 'sensible' is not usually a word associated with me.Remembering to put the bin out is enough responsibility for me. Every goldfish I've ever owned has promptly lost the will to live.Christ I don't even keep pot plants.I don't make fabulous pot roasts; I can't cross-stitch and don't have a stash of secret recipies or know how to remove stains from badly burnt saucepans.Now that I think about it, its probably best I don't become some poor unfortunate's mum.

A queue of full bladdered apres-skiers are now energetically banging on the door to hurry me up. Fair enough.Right one last peek before I bin the test stick.

A really faint blue line has appeared across the test window.I must be a little bit pregnant.I'm going to be a mum!A little tear escapes and a huge smile travels across my face. I'm up the duff, up the pole...unbloominbelievable!Oops not sure mummies say that kind of thing. Better practice being wholesome and good role model,now that I am with child .Still can't frigging well believe it though.