Wee is the new accessory

Nurse Villain the Vile has left a strong impression on me. I should get a gold star for my urine samples. First thing on those mornings when a check-up is due, I pee into the sterile vial. Then I put the liquid gold into a plastic bag and pop it into my handbag. It has become second nature to me …keys, coins for car park; credit card for emergency shopping moments [ahem!] lippie and a sample of pee.

I breeze past the receptionist and smile at nurse Villain the Vile confident that I cannot be in trouble. I have my sample of wee and my check-up card. Nurse V examines the vial and winces. Then she regards my bump critically. ‘Hmmm I don’t like the look of that. You’re quite big aren’t you?’ she queries rhetorically.
‘Any history of diabetes?’ she enquires dipping a strip of blotting paper into the vial. ‘You’re going to have to do a glucose test for us. Right, drink this, hang about for 2 hours and we’ll test again.’ I down the sickly, sugary concoction down in one go.

I phone Mildred and leave a message, apologizing that I’ve been delayed at the clinic. I am of course delighted to have some extra time away from the office, with nothing to do but drink tea, read 'Hello' magazines and chat to other women in the waiting room. I would pay good money to join this club! Ooh that’s my phone.’Hello Mildred, yes I’m delayed. …Complications…. well, er could be diabetic…. er, no I didn’t know I was either. I really don’t think that’s fair. My generation does not just slump around, eating biscuits and complaining. It’s not my fault I might have gestational diabetes! ’The old bat hung up.

‘Some people!’, I complain, biting into another digestive, to my new best pal in the waiting room.’ My boss thinks I’ve got diabetes just to get out of doing more work, honestly’. My new best pal looks concerned. ‘Is it serious?’ she asks. ‘Ehm I don’t think so’ I respond, less than confidently. ‘Does it affect the baby? She asks again. ‘Ehm, I don’t know’. ‘Will you have to take drugs and will you have it for life? Do you mind giving yourself injections?’

‘Daisy’ hollers Nurse V. I have never been so glad to see the woman. She hands me a new vial and sends me on my way to the ladies. I am red faced, very worried and my heart is palpitating. My poor baby could be in danger .I somehow manage to completely miss aim and most of the midstream jet of urine ricochets off in every direction. A measly couple of drops have collected in the vial. I want to cry. I want to lie down on my back and kick and scream like a hyperactive sugar addled toddler. ‘Its ok baby’ I whisper ‘Your mother is just having a mini crisis. It’s not your fault, little one. Hang in there and keep smiling.’ I splash water on my tear stained face and return to Nurse V’s lair with trepidation.

Is that all you could manage?’ Nurse V sniffs huffily. ‘Well it’ll have to do.’ She dips in the testing indicator. ‘That’s ok.’ she murmurs. ‘So ehm, I don’t have diabetes then? And my baby is ok? And I don’t need to inject myself?’ ‘No, you just need to drink lots of water and give those biscuits a rest.’ she dismisses me.

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!'.