I’m having a baby.
In six months time a human will emerge from my vagina on a wave of my insides. Plummeting onto planet earth like a resistant rider on a terrible theme park log flume.
It was planned (aaaaaand it sorta wasn’t).
This is what happened.
We had pencilled in a ‘start trying’ time for January 2015. Essentially writing SEXY SEX SEX in big letters all over the first page of the kitchen calendar. Which, considering it’s a Star Wars calendar, is a bit weird.
January was locked down. Or should I say Jan-OVARY! Am I right, Ladies!?
I’ve been on the pill for years. I know, Loretta Lynn would be thrilled. I have a few chums who have had babies and they advised that I should stop taking the pill a month or two before we really wanted to start trying so my body could regulate itself.
Now, did I research this at all? Did I even do a mere google search? Nope I just came off the pill.
Four days later me and my husband had slightly drunken (but really great, guys) SEXY SEX. Boom. Prego.
To be fair my catholic ovaries have been really patient. In the last year I’m convinced that I’ve heard a lot of early nineties R n’B ballads coming from my womb. Perhaps it got spotify in an attempt to lure me and husband to the bedroom with some Boys II Men.
We were both thrilled but a bit shocked. I genuinely felt like a teenage girl who had listened to her mates when they said things like “You can’t get pregnant if you do it in a bath/standing up/ singing frere jacques/whilst drinking orange squash…”
So I’m growing a baby. I’ve never grown a baby before.
I’ve grown lettuce, quite successfully and beetroot, less successfully but I’ve also killed every house plant I have ever owned. Even the one I adopted.
I’ve been really worried that I’m bad at it.
Well, there’s no feedback!
In my job there is instant feedback. If I tell a joke there is an immediate response and reaction from the audience. I know instantly from one minute to the next if I’m doing the job or not. But at the moment I have a half person audience inside me and I have no idea whether it is enjoying the show.
All I know is that there is a GCSE science module thrashing about in my uterus causing the rest of my body to collectively sigh and gossip, “Well she’s making a bit of a fuss at the moment”.
I’ve had to accept that my baby is now in charge of my body.
It’s the boss. The Prime Minister if you will, and it’s currently in the process of a massive cabinet reshuffle.
First of all I have breasts. I mean, actual knockers.
Being the owner of small boobs has never bothered me. Most of my friends have huge breasts and to be quite honest, they seem terrible inconvenient. I actually think it would be nice if they were able to check them into some sort of ‘boob cloak room’. Y’know, just whack em off for a bit for a 10k run or if you’d just like to wear a shirt for a day without having to rugby tackle your chest into a cottoned, buttoned prison.
Ever wondered what a man would do if he had breasts for a day?
Probably what I’ve been doing. Jumping up and down in front of the mirror watching them jiggle about in my bra, giggling loudly. Or just feeling the need to constantly squeeze them, even in public.
It’s not just boobs, the whole physicality of my body is changing. I’ve always been a rather straight up and down type of a silhouette. Some women are described as pear shaped, or apple shaped whereas I’ve always believed that I was firmly of the Dime bar shape.
Not anymore. The straight lines are all smudged and curved. I’m getting…rounder. I’m all soft and round and well, womanly I guess. I feel like I’ve been rubbed out and then redrawn into a Botticelli painting.
Oh and then there are the hormones. Which appear to be on some sort of nine month long binge drinking session. Where I switch from irrational anger at a youtube video to crying at a sandwich.
I have a sneaking suspicion that some online trolls are actually pregnant women in the middle of a hormonal rage. Mine (which has been directed at my lovely husband) is followed instantly by my catholic guilt. “I’m so sorry I shouted at you about grated cheese but I’m just feeling very oversensitive at the moment”
It’s been super weird gigging with pregnancy hormones. I was compering a gig a couple of weeks ago where a very drunk woman in the audience wouldn’t shut up so I had to tell her to. She swayed off to the toilet and then the bloke near her called me a bully.
Well, I am pretty mean, Guys. Especially to women who have drunk so much sambuca they would need a passport and a translator just to understand what I’m saying. I’m basically Katie Hopkins.
Now ordinarily I would have (In RuPaul drag race terms) taken this man to church. Instead my lip quivered, I felt the need to blink back tears and suddenly started making a list in my head to all those times I’ve definitely been a good person.
1. Lent Sarah my spare gym knickers so she didn’t have to do a cross country run in her tiny Tammy girl ones….2. Signed up to the RSPCA..oh wait actually that was only because the bloke with the clipboard was fit. Erm 3? Generous with hugs…4….STUPID STUPID HORMONES.
I’ve become an Olympic napper.
I reckon I was at regional level napping before I was up the duff but now I feel I have really excelled myself, snooze wise. The sickness has just about gone. However morning sickness is never morning sickness. Any women reading this trying for a baby, remember IT IS NEVER MORNING SICKNESS. It is Morning, noon and night sickness. It feels like never ending stage fright for a performance months away.
The baby, currently has a variety of names depending on how I’m feeling. When I’m hungry I refer to it as Audrey Two from Little Shop Of Horrors and then I’ll sing ‘Feed me’ at my husband loudly in a questionable accent.
When I’m exhausted and I feel like I can’t move because something is sucking all my energy away from me it’s called, ‘The lava’. But generally it’s just called, button. Pretty easy to remember as its doorbell is a belly button.
I had my scan last week. Which was pretty incredible. Mainly because now I know that there is definitely a baby in there. I wasn’t sure. The screen on the ultrasound went black at first and I thought for a moment, maybe I had made it all up.
Maybe all this nausea and sleeping and anxiety and irrational youtube anger was all in my head. Then the screen illuminated in glorious silent movie black and white. There it was, wriggling about and doing high kicks with its leg. Making me, my husband and the midwife laugh. Like some sort of tiny Buster Keaton. Not just enjoying the show but putting on a show.
And I relaxed. Just like its Mum.