Dignity in Pregnancy

I just walked past my reflection in the pub window, where I write this blog. As Barnaby coined it when he got up this morning ‘today is a summer day, isn’t it mummy’. With 21 degrees forecast, nestled amongst the coldest spring days on record for 50 years – indeed it is. To celebrate, I drop the leggings and am wearing a denim maternity dress which used to come down to just above my knees but now just stretches below my bottom - travelling a great circumference around my bump. Aware of the potential exposure I am also wearing some shorts as a back-stop. Underneath my dress I wear a large tubigrip dress rolled over to do the job that my stomach muscles long since gave up on when they separated to 1.5 fists apart. A white Velcro belt supports my loosened achy pelvis as I walk, and a smaller frayed tubigrip now supports my right knee, after it buckled yesterday under the weight of my 12 stone bumpy body. I suspect as a result of some ill - judged lunges at my palates class at the hospital on Wednesday – more about that later. Inappropriately with a dress, I wear my running trainers to provide some shock absorbance as I walk. My reflection reminds me of all the undignified elements of pregnancy that we mum’s roll with:

A few months ago, I had gone to pick up Barnaby (3 and a bit, bossy, cheeky, chatty, thick mop of hair) from Noddy’s – his nursery at the end of our road. As others observe, Barnaby rules our household, and the night before had demanded that I join him in the bath so that he could splash water on my hair a deal struck so that he would allow me to wash his. Anyway, on arriving at Noddy’s – late as ever, I collapse onto a little person’s chair in the green room, where the dregs of 3 kids whose parents will find late train excuses like me, have gathered. I was pretty shattered that day, and slightly bored by people remarking on how big they thought I was given that I still had 3 months to go. In the Green room is Erika – Barnaby’s first key worker when he was a baby, Tulisa – a fun smiley staff member from the Green room who makes up sing along raps, Becky and Lorette , old timers who look after the 3 yr old plus kids.

“My mummy’s got really big boobs now, hasn’t she” says Barnaby to the worn out staff around him. Erika starts to grin at Barnaby, just sizing up whether he is demanding a ‘yes’ response or not. I grin back, acknowledging the amusing statement that is now lingering in the green room, whilst sleep plans, and coloured in horses stare back. I am ill prepared for his next line:

“and do you know? - her nipples are really, really brown too”

And that’s Barnaby - He is confident, chatty, curious, funny, cheeky and thankfully very happy. And me in motherhood - undignified, amused, not quite sure how to react as a parent, especially considering how best to react to ensure that he doesn’t repeat the line in future.

It is 3.5 years since I last wrote my motherhood blog in the wondrous days proceeding and succeeding Barnaby’s birth. I find myself in the same corridor of uncertainty, at 38 weeks pregnant, once again with time on my hands to write and reflect but with 'to-do' lists sadly devoid of the same sense of first time wonder.

I didn’t realise last time that I had any followers until a few months after I stopped writing. I stopped because time stopped waiting for me to write when I had succumbed to the belief that a good mum responds to every cry, entertains constantly during waking hours and is generally a servant to her son. Perhaps that early responsiveness has in some way formed Barnaby’s demanding character and need for his mum and dad’s constant attention and reassurance. It will be different with number 2, and I wonder if the distraction of another will dampen some of Barnaby’s neediness, in full knowledge that we will go through some tantrums along that journey. So I write with doubts that I can keep the blog running through maternity leave this time with my hectic post birth schedule of completing & preparing for rental our new build house in Cornwall; the distraction of a 3 year old wilful Barnaby, and my impending operation for the second lump I am carrying, which will likely battle for my mind’s attention with the kicker in my tum.

But today is a finger looking good day, so I will leave it to the next blog to indulge in the trauma of my diagnosis in January.
Today it is sunny, and knee buckling aside, by 10am Alex appears to have conceded on a boy’s name (we don’t know sex of Monty the bump, but I’m convinced it’s a boy), I have ordered a slate sign for our new house in Cornwall “Wave Watch”, and Barry – our Cornish developer called to declare he is back full time and fully focused on completing our dream house in Cornwall next month. Barry explains that he has got off a court charge yesterday for some driving misdemeanour which had weighed heavily on his mind. He has breakfasted on the beach in the sun at Portreath plotting his late morning surf, and all in the world is possible again, including installation of our free standing bath, and pipe rework to replace the oil tank with an air source heat pump.

Preparations for life with a new born screamer are feeling less in control. I have 10 days to uncover some fellow maternity leave buddies in Putney, where so far I have drawn a blank and feel the gap of the NCT security circle. My intention was to join lots of palates and yoga classes pre-birth, but logistics have conspired against me and they didn’t really happen. So now that I’ve finally finished work, I took myself off to a palates class at the hospital on Wednesday which my physio had pointed me towards for my pelvic girdle ailment. I wrongly assumed it was a pre/ post natal class, but instead found out that the other 6 participants were all over the age of 70, rehabilitating from an injury or just old creaky age. There was much huffing and puffing when the physio instructor requested we either stand up or lie down again, and occasionally a couple of the more heavily made up SW ladies would sit out a round of picking one’s legs up. When the class finally came to a close I was surrounded by questions of ‘how long have you got to go’ – ‘well aren’t you doing well, then’. To which I regrettably had replied ‘well so are you’. Well I’m not sure my 70 something mum would have even attempted the cat position either!