Where is Emma and What Have You Done with Her?

Ok so I should probably address the somewhat extended absence from all things blog-like. My last post was six weeks ago because that was the last time I actually wrote anything. The reason for this being, not that my life has ground to a sudden and dull halt, but rather so much has happened I can’t quite process it in a way that would make sense on paper. I think (and I emphasise the ‘think’) that I might have finally shoved my way through the confusion and have some idea of how to form my thoughts into prose once more.

Ummm, right, well the things is, god it feels so weird to say this, I’m pregnant, up the duff, with child, in the family way. I’m married and responsible and all that so it was planned, but it wasn’t supposed to happen this bloody fast! What was supposed to happen was that we spent a few months giving it a good try allowing me time to savour my unspoilt body, drink in every last drunken moment and enjoy all those lazy afternoons on the sofa before the sofa got full of sick, milk and grubby hand prints. That morning when I stood in the bathroom, white stick in hand, trembling, had been imagined as a morning where daffodils bloomed and spring lambs were born. Instead it was a freezing cold February several months before I ever thought it would be.

I’m not thick, I know how babies are made but I just genuinely thought after ten years of dedicated pill popping, all the necessary cogs in the machine would take a while to start turning again. When my boobs suddenly felt like they were filled with barbed wire and my mouth had the acrid taste of pennies swirling around it, I knew my body had in fact been its usual efficient self and all my plans for getting absolutely bladdered that weekend had been pissed onto a home pregnancy test.

The first thing I did was put my hand over my mouth, try to steady my breathing and then I smiled, smiled like world peace depended on it, I think I even laughed a bit to myself like a giddy school girl. Being that it was 7am, my husband was more bewildered than anything else when I came into the bedroom waving two little pink lines in front of his face. His exact words were ‘no you’re not’, because, like me, he never believed that all our musings about a having a September-December baby would actually come to fruition. It’s now 14 weeks since we made a baby and the small black and white photo I have (where I swear our kid is waving) confirms that we are indeed going to be parents. Holy shit.

Trying to wrap your head around so much of your life changing is really hard. Throw on top of that hours of endless nausea, dizzy spells, bloating worse than any man vs. food challenge could muster and a daily struggle to accept very few favourite clothes now fit, and I have essentially been walking around in a fugg of ‘who am I and what do I do now’. I’m not some energizer gym bunny, but I have always been active and my productivity hovers at fairly decent level at all times. I like to get things done. Being pregnant has rendered me a lazy, unmotivated and whiny arsehole. My walks to work have ceased, my eBay enterprise has fallen to the wayside and even though we are buying a house, my desire for folders, dividers and colour coding has been chewed up and spat out. I have even been questioning my fashion sense!

I don’t have a bump yet. I have put on weight and it is all on my belly but it isn’t a pronounced bump; it just looks like I’ve eaten lots and lots of pies (which along with pasties are a new favourite of mine). So shopping has become the entrée to an appetiser of tears and frustration while I figure out how to still wear the things I like without looking like I’ve just let myself go. It might be shallow, it might be vain but how I look is important to me and it’s an adjustment I’m admittedly struggling to make. I long for the months when my uterus pops its head out to say hello and I can wear dungarees and floaty dresses with pregnant pride.

Finally though, after all of the above has travelled back and forth through my brain and my hormones have failed in their quest to suck out who I was, finally, I feel like I could be coming out the other side. My elation at having a baby has never subsided but now I have also made peace with the fact that I’m not going to be one of those earth mothers who enjoys the whole nine months like she’s finally found who she was meant to be. I’m a hard faced old cow and I liked me just as I was thank you very much. Next week I will be walking to work, tonight I am going shopping and I’ve done extensive internet research into what will suit me, and in a few weeks I am going on a girl’s night and I’m not going to sit in the corner while everyone else dances. I didn’t expect to get pregnant so quick, and I didn’t expect pregnancy would render me lifeless but I do expect that, as with everything that comes my way, I give myself a good slap in the chops, remind myself of who I am and get on with being that person, because in a few months when I pop this sprog, they’re going to need a good mum and pregnancy might nearly have defeated me but I’m going to kick motherhood’s arse.


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