Читать книгу Bonkers: A Real Mum's Hilariously Honest tales of Motherhood, Mayhem and Mental Health - Olivia Siegl, Olivia Siegl - Страница 13
ОглавлениеPREGNANT AND BLOOMING – (AKA BLOOMING DEMONIC, STARVING AND WILLING TO KILL FOR A CHEESE BURGER AND A FULL-FAT COKE)
Those weeks when we carried around our secret really were magical. Just the two of us, feeling excited and special, sharing the baby whilst the rest of the world was unawares. We went to the doctor and he assigned us a gynaecologist (down the mountain). We already knew of him thanks to his God-like status; he had delivered most of the babies in our village. My mates and I used to joke about how the same man had seen all our fannies! Bit crude maybe, but hey, when you’re pregnant and not drinking you have to get your kicks somewhere right?
MORNING SICKNESS – AKA FEELING CONSTANTLY HUNGOVER MINUS THE FUN OF GETTING INAPPROPRIATELY SMASHED!
Boy, oh boy, do we need these kicks when the all-day, ‘When is this going to end?’ morning sickness kicks in.
Oh yes, along came the seven weeks pregnant mark, bringing its stomach-turning mate with him, and so ensued six weeks of me feeling worse than I did the morning after drinking my body weight in Jaegar with the Vietnamese mafia. Oh and not to forget me looking radiant and blooming aka stuffing my face with Fizzy Haribo, Cheese Burgers and full fat Coke under a blanket on the sofa whenever I got the chance.
God, it was hell (not the stuffing my face obvs that was pretty, darn special). The sickness. Ugghhhh! My early pregnancy days consisted of peeling myself out of bed and wanting to puke or crumble into smithereens of exhaustion (usually both). And then having to get my sorry-for-myself ass ready to face the long and winding drive down the mountain and then across the border into Switzerland. All whilst switching between wanting to suck the life out of orange segments to wanting to puke up in the plastic carrier bag I now carried as a staple accessory on the passenger seat.
So, as you can imagine the last thing I felt at nine weeks pregnant was sociable! And I so wish someone at the time had told me it was OK to want to cocoon myself away from the world, to be able to come home, put on my fat bum pants and flake – after a day of fooling the rest of the outside world that I was feeling my usual normal self. If you are currently pregnant and wanting to do nothing more than sit on your gorgeous pregnant bottom and chill out, then guess what? You can! Now, go get your stretchy telly pants on, get horizontal and enjoy every moment of it, my lovely.
I was not prepared mentally for the level of emotions and exhaustion I felt. I had brought into the ‘I’m not sick, I’m just pregnant’ malarkey and was determined to carry on as normal despite just wanting to rest. No one had told me to ease off the pressure, to allow myself to be pregnant and tired and to know that this is OK. This is normal.
Without this little nugget of advice, my hubby had to learn the hard way of what it is like to cross swords with a knackered creator of human life.
One evening, I was feeling like total and utter dog turd thanks to the morning sickness. I’d spent the day at work pretending I was on top of my game to all my work colleagues whilst taking sneaky naps in the staff loos. I’d finally made it home after a particularly stomach-churning and exhausting drive home up the winding mountain roads, which had me dry-retching at every bend like a rabid dog. I walked into the house desperate to get into my PJs and onto the sofa, bury my face into my standard bag of Haribo, when my darling hubby reminded me that, there were other plans afoot: I now had to get my glad rags on because we were leaving in ten minutes to go for dinner with friends.
WTF?
I had no words. Literally not even one bloody syllable.
However, I did have huge, ugly, face-distorting, snot-dripping sobs, and proceeded to soak him, the kitchen floor and anything within three feet of me with them.
The look on my hubby’s face was priceless. Like some weird bugeyed, snot-a-whalling creature had just slithered her way in, pretending to be his wife. (He had no idea what was yet to come!)
Bewildered and fearing for his life, he dared to approach and try to convince me that it would be a good and enjoyable thing to go out for dinner with our friends.
He might as well have been inviting me to dine with Satan himself whilst sat on a pile of upturned drawing pins.
Now obviously, he was not growing body parts, so he couldn’t quite get his head around either my hysterics or the levels of unadulterated exhaustion and irrationality. As far as he was concerned, I had just finished work for the week and we could now look forward to a lovely night with our friends. However, for knackered and pregnant me, it was the end of my sofa-obsessed world. I’d driven to and from a different country to get to work, whilst trying not to puke my guts up on the mountainside or at the border control. Then I’d faced a long day of meetings talking about internal ad campaigns, meeting agendas and newsletters; endured a team meeting where everyone stank of coffee and fags; listened until my brain hurt trying to fathom out what everyone was saying in their lightning speed French – all whilst wanting to crawl under my desk, puke in the plant pot and take a nap on my colleague Jean-Luc’s discarded and very expensive laptop bag. I’d kept up the farcical charade that all was well, I was ‘fine’, on top of the world and my job.
Now the thought of having to continue the pretence and lie to my good friends, to desperately think of a believable excuse as to why I was not drinking my usual Friday night gallon of vin blanc whilst watching everyone else get pissed – when all I wanted to do was put on my elasticated PJ bottoms, curl up under a blanket and stuff my face with anything that would stop this nausea – was all just too much for this pregnant lady to take.
After more sobbing and some demonic grunts from my good self, the pregnancy penny finally dropped and my hubby realised that holy hell, he was actually talking to his wife who was now pregnant, overtired, overemotional and wanting to puke and then sleep for a billion years. With his life hanging in the balance, he got the message, tucked me up on the sofa and went to dinner armed with apologies and excuses for me not being able to make it. The moral of this story? Listen to yourself and do what’s best for you. You ARE allowed.
PREGNANCY CAN BE BLOODY SCARY
All was going well with my pregnancy. I felt like dog turd most of the time, but I’d read on one of the baby websites now bombarding me with emails, that it was a good sign to feel so ill. Then, at around seven weeks, we had the shock of our lives: I noticed I was bleeding. I felt sick and devastated, immediately thinking the worst. We phoned our doctor, who reassured us that this can be normal at this stage, but we wanted to go into hospital just to be on the safe side. The hospital was an hour away down the mountain (I was now beginning to curse the fact we were so far away!) and it became one of the longest drives of our lives. We drove most of the way in silence, not daring to voice our fears that the little person we had been secretly planning and celebrating was being taken away from us. We tried to fill that hour with reassuring words, but the fear in the air of our car was palpable.
Once we got to the hospital and were ushered into our room, the nurse explained she was going to do a scan and see if she could find a heartbeat. I felt sick, panicked and couldn’t dare let my mind wonder: What if she can’t?
They were long and terrifying minutes as she smothered my unpregnant-looking tummy with cold jelly and then proceeded to look for the baby and any sign of a tiny heart beat. She assured us that she was having trouble finding it only because the pregnancy was so early. Then she pressed down harder and bingo, she found it! We were relieved for a millisecond – until she informed us that she was worried that it was very faint and told us that we’d have to come back in a week’s time.
Faint? What the hell did that mean? Did she know something we didn’t and was holding out on us? Was there something wrong and we were going to find out the full extent of how wrong at the next scan? I wanted to scream at her for not giving us the reassurance that everything was OK! I knew that it wasn’t her fault and that she had to be as matter-of-fact as possible with us, but I could have swung at her for being so black and white and unemotional with us.
So, relieved and worried sick all at the same time, we left the hospital and somehow got through the next week, worrying that any little twinge meant something sinister – and worrying even more if I didn’t feel as sick as I thought I should be or had been a few days prior. Thankfully one week and another scan later we got the news we had been longing for: so far, all was OK with our baby and the heartbeat was now normal for the time in its pregnancy. We left the hospital clutching the scan picture of our alien-like but perfectly normal tiny human and cried with relief and happiness all the way back up the mountain. Now, we thought, we could get on with the rest of the pregnancy, knowing the baby was healthy.
However, the night before our twelve-week scan, I started to bleed heavily. This made our previous scare seem like nothing. It was dinnertime when it happened, and in despair and blind panic we called the hospital to see what we should do. ‘Nothing’ was their pragmatic, black and white response. I was advised to stay where I was, to take it easy, and monitor the bleeding – and, if I started to get severe pains, to go straight in. The harsh and heartbreaking reality was that if I was having a miscarriage, then medically there was nothing they could do to stop it. We would have no choice but to let nature run its course. So, we did. I sat there numb, with my feet up on a cushion (thinking this would help keep the baby where it should be), not daring to move, just waiting to see what happened. Since we had our twelve-week scan booked for the following day, I knew I just had to sit tight, keep calm and hope beyond hope that everything was going to be OK.
We arrived the next morning, grim-faced, racked with anxiety and fearing the worst – and got to see why our gynaecologist was held in such God-like esteem. As soon as we told him what had happened the night before, he cut our conversations short and whisked me into the scan room. Before I knew what was happening or had any time to worry further, he had the probe on my tummy and a heartbeat booming out on high volume around the room.
‘C’est bon!’ – ‘It’s fine’
I could have French kissed that French man right there and then in front of my hubby and my unborn child. Happy, relieved, over the moon – none of that comes even close to the delight that I felt. And this wasn’t only to do with the obvious and overwhelming relief that our baby was OK and had survived another scare, but also the way in which he dealt with the whole situation. No messing about, no long lingering wait to find the heartbeat, no doubt-filled seconds of dread. Just bang, boom, everything fine!
Our tiny human was only twelve weeks in creation and was already causing heart-stopping drama and keeping us well and truly on our toes. We were soon to find out this would follow us into later pregnancy and out into the real world. (More of this little beauty later!)
IT’S NOT ‘C’EST BON’ FOR EVERYONE
I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to take a little pause here to pay respect to those mums and dads who don’t get the news they are longing to hear about their tiny humans. Who don’t get to feel the relief the words ‘everything’s normal’ brings. Whose scares are not just scares but are instead warning signs that something is terribly wrong or that their little person is having to leave them. I want to honour all the precious tiny humans who are no longer with us, and show my love and respect to all the mums, dads and families who have suffered.
** Anyone needing support after going through child bereavement please see the list of support services detailed in the back of the book on page 236
TRYING AND FAILING TO KEEP UP THE ‘I’M NOT PREGNANT!’ CHARADE!
I think one of the most exhausting things when you first become pregnant (alongside the raging hormones and zapping of energy due to your body performing its very own hidden miracle) is the whole bloody effort of keeping it hidden from your nearest and dearest. I have no idea what I was thinking when I concocted my own tall tales of ‘I’m not pregnant bullshit’, but wow, they were pretty special.
I took my big pregnancy cover-up to epic proportions. You see, not quite satisfied with the bog standard and tried-and-tested cover-ups used by millions of pregnant ladies before me – ‘I’m on antibiotics’, ‘I’m on a detox’, ‘I’m the designated driver’ etc., etc. – I instead concocted such a ridiculous tale that not even I was convinced by it. Now, before we carry on with this, I’m going to apologise to you right now for how much you are going to cringe throughout the next section and also question (probably not for the first or the last time) how much level of crazy and downright idiotic one person can be. Read on, my friend, read on …
So, there I was, pregnant and coming from the school of thought that the more detail and extravagant the story, the more likely people were to believe it. Right? Especially since, as far as my good friends were concerned, me turning down booze at a party, a dinner or, let’s face it, anything even slightly like a social gathering was like me refusing to breathe. Therefore, my thinking was that it had to be something quite dramatic for them to believe me. (I am aware now that I sound like a total boozehound.)
So the storyteller in me set out to weave her tall and incredibly shit tales. Tales that involved me blurting out to anyone and everyone who even made the slightest suggestion that I may want a drink or to consume a slightly undercooked anything: ‘I have parasites.’
Oh yes, that old chestnut.
Seriously, what was I thinking?
And why the hell did my poor hubby go along with it? (Oh yes, dear friends, I took him down with me too.)
There we would be, throughout those first twelve weeks of pregnancy, attending BBQs, birthday parties and dinners out with friends. Me and my hubby side by side and nodding in unison as I proclaimed for the billionth time that ‘Yes, the reason I am not drinking is because I have parasites!’ All whilst my friends, acquaintances, and sometimes people I’d never even met before looked at me with a mix of bemusement and what can only be described as mild disgust as they imagined me being riddled with these parasites running amok around my body and stopping me from drinking. I mean, come on, why the hell would having parasites stop me from drinking? It’s fair to say that pregnancy had driven me slightly cuckoo.
Luckily, most people who heard this tall and ever so slightly odd tale seemed convinced enough – or, at least slightly disgusted or embarrassed enough – not to probe deeper. Instead, they would back away from me slowly whilst taking a big gulp from the glass of wine they had been offering to me. That is, until one day, when I found myself at another BBQ (damn being pregnant during good weather months!), turning down rosé coming at me from every direction and spinning the same bullshit yarn about my bloody parasites to everyone.
I’d gotten quite good at it, too. Like any good storyteller, I was dedicated to my craft and had embellished it as the weeks had past. These imaginary parasites had now become something I’d picked up whilst travelling around Vietnam and which had laid dormant until now to attack with a vengeance. Poor old me, eh.
Usually this was the point where my tall tale would stop, the audience satisfied by the amount of detail and, quite frankly, put off by the grossness of it all. But this evening my audience included a nurse.
Oh yes, there I was, telling my fully embellished tale to a medical professional, who after listening carefully to my sorrowful tale and nodding in all the right places, asked: ‘Do you really have parasites?’
‘Yes, yes I have, bloody awful they are,’ I replied, following it with my well practised sigh of acceptance.
‘But, what do you mean?’
Oh shit … ‘Well, I have parasites.’
‘Right, but how? Which type?’
Oh shit, shit, shit! ‘I can’t quite remember the long name for them.’ I was starting to unravel. ‘I’ve had blood tests and everything [don’t know what the hell I meant by everything] and the doctor reckons I picked them up whilst travelling around Vietnam.’
‘Right, and where are they these parasites?’
She had me on the run. ‘In my bum.’ IN MY BUM?!? MY GOD WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME? I’d just told someone I’d never met before, in the middle of a summer BBQ, that I had Vietnamese parasites residing in my arsehole. Still, I was determined to keep this long-established cock and bull story on track, so I embellished further, explaining they were sore and itched like hell.
‘What and you can’t drink because of them?’
There was no let up with this woman! ‘No, because I am on antibiotics for them.’
‘Oh really? Which ones? I’m a nurse and I could check them for if you want, as you can drink on some of them, you know.’
Sod this! I was in above my head this time, trying to con a medical professional who quite obviously knew her shit and could see through mine. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, I’m pregnant and I just made up all of that rubbish. I don’t have parasites. I’m having a baby.’
‘Ha, ha, and that’s the best story you could come up with?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is.’ Hangs head in shame.
Game, set, match to the inquisitive medical professional.
Luckily, this switched-on and shrewd nurse soon went on to become one of my best mates and it turns out she was pregnant too (minus the shit cover-up story). She was already at the twelve-week stage, so all this making up of tall tales to convince people you were the carrier of parasites rather than a baby was now behind her.
Needless to say it was a bloody relief to finally get to tell everyone.
‘I’M NOT SICK, I’M JUST PREGNANT’
So, I have been pregnant for a grand total of two times. Both pregnancies were such polar opposites that it made me realise that pregnancy can be wonderful (as it was with my first), but it can also totally screw you over (as it did with my second, me lying on my hippo-sized arse unable to do anything for fear of the baby coming prematurely). Who knew that bringing life into this world can be a wonderful, sun shining, birds singing, blooming in the face of the world experience one time and the next time make you feel so awful that you never want to do it again?
I have to admit I was a smug pregnant biatch with my first tiny human. So much so that the thought of me bounding along with my neat bump, glossy pregnancy hair, glowing skin and full of energy, chanting the motto of ‘I’m not sick, I’m just pregnant’, made my second-time pregnant self want to go back in time and punch my smug self in my smug face.
After the passing of the morning sickness in my first pregnancy, I felt great. I was full of energy and optimism. I exercised three times a week, and had a personal pregnancy yoga instructor who had me and bump doing shoulder stands. My hair and skin looked the best it ever had, I was full of life in every sense of the word, and so, so excited about being pregnant and becoming a mum. I can honestly say it was one of the happiest times of my life, when I felt my most calm and purposeful, doing exactly what I was meant to be doing.
You can imagine my shock when my second pregnancy didn’t quite follow the same pattern and instead taught me that pregnancy can also be one of the toughest, anxiety-riddled and overwhelming times too. And a time when we are at our most unwell. At just sixteen weeks pregnant with my second tiny human, I was having contractions, suffering from extremely low blood pressure, put on bed rest and signed off work. Oh yes, no yoga head stands for me! Like I said, pregnancy polar opposites!
So, I am going to break the mould here of every baby book that has come before me and say this:
Not every pregnancy is a delight.
You are not guaranteed to have a textbook pregnancy where everything is blooming and glowing in your garden. Sometimes you can have a pregnancy that makes you wish each day away, not to be closer to the day you get to hold your baby, but to be closer to the day where you will no longer feel like death warmed up. I am here to tell you that if you are currently feeling like this or have felt like this, you are not alone. It’s OK, you are not the devil just because you don’t or didn’t enjoy being pregnant.
Pregnancy is also a time when we can start to feel judged on the decisions we make – from what we eat and how we exercise to what type of birth we are planning. This is where I felt the first elements of judgement starting to trickle into my life. What ‘type’ of pregnant was I going to be? The cool and easy-going pregnant, carrying on as normal, eating what I liked, socialising in flats and not batting a knackered eyelid at being designated driver YET AGAIN? The whingy and precious pregnant, griping about everything from how tired I was to how fat I was getting? The crazy neurotic pregnant, worrying over every little thing, doing everything by the book and not daring to have uncooked meat in the house let alone on my plate? Or the earth mother pregnant, walking barefoot, wafting joss sticks and ensuring an environment of positivity at all times around my growing bump and praying to Aluna, my pregnancy goddess. (Please note I have no idea who Aluna is. Cool name, though. Big shout out to any of you Alunas out there.)
The judgement also seeped into how I looked. Was my bump going to be ‘neat and tidy’ or more like an out-of-control oil spill in the Pacific, smothering everything in its path? Was I going to look fifty-seven weeks rather than the seventeen weeks I was? Or would bump and I look like a celeb mum rocking the chic bump without the heaven of a maternity legging in sight (I still miss them!)?
I came to realise the sorry (and, quite frankly, disturbing) levels of judgement fired down on pregnant women when I was stopped in the street by someone I barely knew, who proceeded to compliment me on how well I looked (nice) and how tiny my bump was. (Apparently, having a small bump and hardly looking pregnant equates to looking well; seems a bit weird.) Then she started to rip pieces out of another pregnant lady she knew who had ‘a massive bump’, telling me I should be ‘grateful’ because I looked so much better than her. WTF? I stood there in shock as one woman ripped into a pregnant woman about how she looked. It was offensive. It was uncalled for. It was a judgemental attack I had not seen since the playground.
I often think this was one of the first instances when I felt an urge to stand up for and protect other mums and mums-to-be. This was the place where my passion and fire was lit in honour of supporting every mum – no judgement. It was an empowering realisation that it is our job as women to lift up our fellow warriors on the battlefield of life rather than to be the ones slaying them and leaving them gurgling facedown in the mud.
The judgement I encountered during both pregnancies, and the huge differences I experienced, has fuelled my belief that us mums need to be prepared for whatever pregnancy throws at us, to ensure that we are not left in a bedraggled state before the hard work really starts – once we’ve pushed out our tiny humans into the world and life gets real.
Not in any of the pregnancy books that I read, did it ever mention that being pregnant is not always a walk in the park. That at times it can be a bit crap and at other times downright terrifying. That as life-affirming and wonderful and as easy as it can be for some, for others it can be anything but. That not everyone gets the cookie cutter pregnancy described in the media. That, like pregnancy bumps, pregnancy itself comes in all shapes and sizes and we should all be talking about ALL experiences of it (the good, the bad and the scary), to ensure we are all as prepared and as mentally strong as possible for whatever comes our way. Most importantly, we should not be judging other mums but empowering and supporting every mum through their pregnancies.
THE BULLS*** TO IGNORE WHEN PREGNANT
One of the things that always bemused me – and, if I’m honest, felt pressured by – was the amount of opinions laid on me while pregnant. From how I should be acting, feeling and dressing to how big my bump was, to what I should or should not be eating. The list goes on and on and on and on and on until you want to stick your own cankle in your mouth (or theirs) to make them stop!
I wish someone had told me that I didn’t have to take it all on board or so personally. That just because advice is offered I didn’t have to take it. And that, more importantly, advice is a bit like shoes: you don’t have room in your wardrobe for every pair. Some you won’t like, and some, which you think will be perfect for you, won’t fit at all. Most importantly, sometimes you will say to hell with it all and instead walk barefoot, shoe- and advice-free.
This is what really inspired me to put pen to paper, so that mums-to-be who found themselves in some of the situations I faced during my pregnancies would know they are not alone. That they don’t have to give a crap about what anyone else thinks; the only opinion which really matters is their own. It’s your pregnancy, your body and your baby, after all!
With that in mind, here is my list of the bullshit to ignore when pregnant:
1. ‘Remember you are pregnant, not ill.’
Really? Have you really just said that to my face? To my green around the gills, If I have to smell a waft of air freshener or whiff another overripe banana I am going to puke my guts up. Oh, and I should feel grateful should I that I have only twelve weeks of this to endure all whilst pretending that I am fine and bloody dandy? That my boobs don’t ache beyond recognition? That my skin is not itching all over like I am infested with a billion creepy crawlies? That I am rushing to the toilet to dry retch every half-hour? All whilst my brain is on high alert panicking over every slight twinge and my body just wants to wave the white flag and surrender into a crumpled heap on the floor.
Anyone who dares to breathe these words to you whilst pregnant deserves a short, sharp punch in the gut.
2. ‘Don’t be too precious about yourself.’
WTF? You are growing a human being all on your own. That’s right: tiny feet, hands, heart and a brain, to name just a few of the awe-inspiring tasks you are completing on a weekly basis! If anyone deserves to be treated like a precious commodity, it is you and your growing bump! Over the years, the term ‘precious’ has been used as a derogatory term. ‘Ooh, she’s a bit precious’, ‘Ooh, you don’t have to be so precious about yourself.’ Well I am saying a big up yours to these idiots who dare say this to expectant or new mums.
Taking care of yourself and doing what feels right for you and your bump whilst pregnant is top of your agenda – and to hell with anyone who uses the p-word.
3. ‘You have to carry on as normal.’
Normal – are you kidding me? There is nothing normal or day-to-day about harbouring a human stowaway in your body for nine months and then passing it through the eye of a needle that is your vagina. If you feel great and want to go to all the social engagements and gym classes going, fantastic! However, if the thought of keeping up appearances and making out that you feel blooming and bursting with energy is making you want to squeeze lemon onto the backs of your eyeballs, then just say no! Yes, the magic word that evaporates all the responsibilities and hassle of having to get ready in a bump-flattering outfit, paint on a smile and pretend that you wouldn’t rather be at home in your PJs, watching Corrie and eating chocolate biscuits.
4. ‘In my day there was none of this nonsense about what you should and shouldn’t be doing when pregnant.’
Yes, but you also had parent and baby books advising you that smoking was OK as long as it was in moderation! Obviously, there are some things that can now seem a bit OTT when it comes to all the things pregnant mums need to remember as out of bounds and harmful to themselves and their growing baby. However, some of these restrictions are there for a valid reason (aka medical advances) and just because they were not around thirty years ago does not mean that they are a scaremongering tactic or that as mums we are being fussy and overcautious if we abide by them. We are just doing what we have been advised is the best way to bring our baby into this world, so please don’t try and make us feel otherwise.
5. ‘Once you get that baby in your arms, everything will feel right.’
We all know that we need to keep ourselves fit and well throughout pregnancy, and that we need to prepare for childbirth through regular exercise and good nutrition. However, we don’t often take time to ensure we are taking care of our mental wellbeing. We are instead told that, once we become a mum, everything will just feel ‘right’. But what do we do if it doesn’t?
Both our bodies and our minds go through huge monumental changes whilst we are pregnant, and then when we become mums. Therefore, we need to make sure we take care of our mental health by ensuring that we talk about any anxieties and worries we may have, and by taking time out to rest. We have to make ourselves a priority by educating ourselves on maternal mental health illnesses – what they are and where to get the right help and support if we are suffering through pregnancy or following the birth of our baby. (For anyone needing support during pregnancy or after the birth of your baby then please see page 236–page 238 for support services you can access.)
6. ‘Ohhh let me have a feel!’
They come at you from out of nowhere. Before you know it, you have a pair of hands feeling and rubbing their way across your stomach whilst you look on in shock and dismay. And as your pregnancy and size of bump progresses, it seems you are fair game for anyone to have a grope. The worst are the totally inappropriate tummy terrorists who think that feeling the lower part of your bump is acceptable rather than verging on sexual harassment. ‘Don’t you realise your hands are sitting on the top of my vagina! Please get the hell away from me!’
7. ‘Wow you’re getting big!’
The only comment anyone should pass about the size of your bump or appearance during pregnancy is to tell you how great you look. I don’t care if you are the size of a hippo on steroids or are alternatively verging on the smaller side, no one should be passing comment – at least, not out loud and not to your face! Comments such as ‘Wow, you’re getting big’ should be met with ‘No shit Sherlock, I’m growing a human. What’s your excuse?’ And anyone who dares comment, ‘Wow you’re tiny, are you sure that’s normal?’ should be met with a kick to the shin.
8. ‘When can we come and stay?’
‘Hmmmm, you can’t!’. Visitors popping in for an hour is one thing. Hopefully, they will come bearing prepared meals and compliments and no expectations of being hosted, and then after whipping the hoover around and washing up their tea cups, they’ll be on their merry way. Overnight houseguests you don’t have to accept. You have become a mum, not a B & B!
9. ‘Oh you’re taking the easy way out and having an epidural?’
There is no ‘easy way’ out when you are trying to push a baby out of a small hole in your body. Fact. As mums-to-be we are bombarded with opinions about how we should be bringing our tiny human into the world, with our options graded from being hardcore and doing it drug-free to taking the easy way out by having an epidural or a C-section. Let me be the first to tell you that all of it is damn hardcore! Each option is challenging and scary as hell. No matter how you bring your tiny human into the world, you are a ROCK STAR!
10. ‘So, come on, tell me your baby names.’
DON’T DO IT! Seriously, no matter how strong the urge to spill the beans on the carefully planned names that both you and your partner have fallen in love with, keep them to yourself. Just one slightly off response of ‘Oh, really’ or ‘Wow, that’s a bit unusual’ will have you backtracking for the rest of your pregnancy.
11. ‘Ooh, make the most of your sleep/life/whatever – because when the baby comes, your life is over!’
Just shut the fuck up, will you!
