The Pregnant Comedian – Waiting

 

I think I may be tired of waiting for this baby now.

At about half eleven on Friday morning I burst into furious, frustrated tears in the waiting area of my hospital’s maternity outpatient unit. look I love the NHS deeply. Like kettle chips deeply. Like the way I love Emilio Estevez in The Mighty Ducks’ films. THAT SHIT RUNS DEEP. But I think having to wait two and a half hours just so a very nice lady can nod enthusiastically at a pot of my own pee is quite frankly, not cricket. It’s chuffing curling (nobody likes curling) *WAITS WITH DRAWN CURTAINS FOR ANGRY CURLING MOB ARMED WITH BURNING BRUSHES*

To be fair I don’t think it was usual. I got the distinct feeling from the very apologetic staff that they may have forgotten about me. That made it worse. I started sobbing. It was completely irrational and stupid and I hated myself for it.

I felt like I was in the middle of this anxiety dream I used to have when I was terrified about my GCSE exam results. Except I wasn’t topless, holding a hockey stick and reading a Wilfred Owen poem.

I’ve been a dormant anxiety volcano waiting for this baby. In that waiting room for what seemed like an unjust amount of time watching other woman happily shuffle in and out of reception felt like some sort of awful birth metaphor. It made all of my nerves and fear erupt out of my eyes and all down my face.

I’m 36 weeks which isn’t even strictly full term so I definitely shouldn’t whinge. 42 weeks is whinging time. 42 weeks is being moved about by wheelbarrow whilst continually eating Magnums and crying the lyrics to ‘The Climb’ by Miley Cyrus.

I feel like I’m ready. I am soooo ready for this baby. I’m starving for this baby. I’m positively ravenous for this baby. It’s like I’m impatiently waiting for my main to arrive in a restaurant but this time going to the loo isn’t helping my food arrive any quicker. And boy, am I going to the loo. Olympic style.

When I say I’m ready, I think I’m ready if he was to actually arrive via stork. That would be super.

I’m less ready for him to arrive via birth canal. It seems a rather unpleasant way to travel and I can say that because I once travelled to Alicante via Easyjet.

Look I know women have been popping out sprogs for like a million years. That it is what our bodies are made to do. That it’s what humans, at our most basic, are here on earth to do. But…it just seems so UNCIVILISED! And I once travelled to Alicante via Easyjet.

I wound myself up the other night by fixating on how bad I am at camping. Bear with me. I’m really bad at camping so obviously I’m going to be really bad at birthing! Bear with me. My reasoning was that camping is as close as us humans get to our natural habitat so if I can’t get a Millets pop up tent back in it’s bag HOW AM I GOING TO GET A HUMAN OUT OF MY UTERUS!?

I don’t think there will ever be another time in my life apart from being pregnant where I will get hysterical about Millets. Unless the zombies come. Then I will be straight to my local branch screaming whilst pilfering waterproofs and camp stoves.

I’m now forcing myself to try to relax more about it.

I’ve been reading books about hypnobirthing and getting yourself into a relaxed and serene state of mind during the birth. Basically a load of visualisation and counting. Oh and caves. Why does relaxation seem to always involve visualising a cave. Have none of these people read ‘We’re going on a bear hunt?’

And why a cave? Or a mountain? Or a beach? Why do I have be outdoors in my mind? Unless this cave or mountain has a Dunelm duvet and Netflix I’m not going to relax.

My Mum is uber casual about childbirth. Having pretty much sneezed out four children. She merely shrugs and smiles warmly to my fearful jitters replying with a confident, “you’ll know what to do.”

This does fill me with a confidence and hope. I’ve inherited her ability to make pastry and belt out Dusty Springfield on karaoke so ovaries crossed I’ve inherited her breezy ability to bring children into the world.

There is one thing I do know. That no matter how bad my birth will be it can’t possibly be as bad as that time I travelled to Alicante via Easyjet.