I’m already penning mine. It’s going to be set in the Amazon with only birdsong for pain relief.
I’ll write how we’re back at home eating quinoa seeds and spinach mere hours after he arrives, my toddler having sprouted angel wings and flown around cleaning the house, preparing dinners, picking up spills.
I will be totally unscathed. The Virgin Mary didn’t need stitches did she? I mean, I don’t remember that in the Bible.
It shouldn’t be hard really, should it?
I mean, aside from having 9 months to think up a name, you must have vaguely thought about it beforehand. “If I had a baby girl I want to call her Emily”.
But it’s not that easy is it?
Not only have you got to run it by the other person who helped produce the child (although I do think the months of actual pregnancy should give the mother some special privileges, no?), but every Tom, Dick and Harry sticks their ore in too. “Na, I knew an Emily at school. Total. Bitch.”
I feel I should put my hands up immediately and admit I’m 35. I hereby declare an interest. In the 80s. I didn’t go to a school prom, not because my train track braces were so ridiculously off-putting to the opposite sex that I couldn’t get a date (could well have been true), but because they hadn’t been invented yet. Or more accurately, they were invented, but only taking place in the land where you can go to a movie drive-thru and American Diners are just called, well, Diners.
And so it is with the apparent grand ‘tradition’ of the baby shower. It’s new. It’s not something we had even heard of ten years ago, apart from on the odd American sitcom. Nowadays though, it seems to the The Thing To Do.
With only 7 weeks left until mini man #2 turns up, I return to my old faithful pal, mortality.
It’s not depression. I’m not upset, distressed or desperate. I’m resolute. I will die. This new life will be the end of me. Period.
I will suck my last worthless breath and my husband will be left raising two boys alone. Or perhaps he’ll shack up with young hot designer from work, yes, that’ll be it. They’ll be calling someone younger and fitter ‘mummy’ and I’ll be bloody well dead.
Buy newborn nappies.
Get shit down from the loft. ALL the shit.
Wash vests. Hundreds and thousands of vests.
Shit, where’s the boy? Oh, there he is. Where was I? Oh yes,
What’s he doing under there? What are you eating? SPIT IT OUT! NOW! My god, you’re so gross, that’s yesterday’s lunch. No wait, that means I’m gross, I can’t even clean up properly. I mean, it’s hard to get under the table 7 months pregnant but still.. Right.