Before I got pregnant this time I would wax lyrical about what a wonderfully beautiful experience carrying a child for 9 months is… I remember floating around like some bloody mother earth idiot and always having a smile on my face. Scratch that bloody record a minute will you!
Now… I don’t know if I was A) looking back through rose tinted spectacles, B) just the luckiest super human EVER for rounds one and two or if C) I was simply bloody mental but… My experience of third time is NOT one I want to repeat (thank fook it’s nearly over) and let’s just say this…
While I would have almost certainly forged on for a second after a first pregnancy like this one, I sincerely doubt we would be in for ‘three is the magic number’ if my other experiences were the same as now. So… All in it’s a good bloody job that for numbers one and two I found it relatively easy going!
Easy going pregnancy – ha ha ha ha ha! The idea simply melts me with derision right now!
Easy going as they had been that first and second time of mine (I obviously still had my moments), this post is about, combined with ALL my pregnancy experiences, the things people don’t tell you – the things I am now going to mention ever so silent and deadly like…
The fucking bloody awful if you will.
I just don’t think people speak about these such things enough – and I’m in that much of a mood about them you’re totally gonna get it!
I’ve been a great one in the past for saying ‘No, don’t tell a woman how horrific labour is, she will find out and there’s no need of her knowing – besides, it’s such a delightful experience in the end’ (note the IN THE END part here peops). But I’ve changed folks and frankly, sod that! If I’m going through it then so are you. I’m an over sharing blogger and with this sickly pregnancy which seems to have lasted for the last 20 years there has come a side of me that I have to let out. AND… If you don’t wanna know some of the worst bits then look away now people.
LOOK AWAY NOW!
Here are my top ten things people never tell you about pregnancy… Obviously ‘top’ is a bit rich but you catch my drift.
- They shouldn’t call it morning sickness because it goes on morning, noon and all frigging night! Someone once said to me ‘It all gets better at 12 weeks’ and this party line is one I have delivered to many friends over the years. Well… It’s bollocks. I was sick for 20 weeks. TWENTY weeks. And you know what… I didn’t even lose any weight. Where’s the silver lining in that? You at least want to lose a stone if you’re yacking up your guts for the best part of 5 months!
- Just when I came out of the ‘gag, I’m gonna puke because someone said the word ‘chicken’ phase’ my stomach decided to move up to my bloody chest. Presumably because the darling little baby has taken up residence where IT usually lives and thus meaning my stomach acid now jumps up my throat all bogging day. No love, mint tea doesn’t really help and absolutely don’t think some sort of meditation might get you through either. Hippy. Mumbo jumbo. What you need. ALL YOU NEED!!!! is a bottle of Gaviscon. If you have a cheap skate husband like me he will try and buy you Tesco own brand but be warned, it is aniseed flavour and possibly EVEN worse to glug down in its thick, globular consistency (which only reminds me of one thing- yuck and sorry TMI) than the mint stuff. Buy this rank friend in BULK and ignore ALL the instructions – you just knock it back willy nilly my darls, it’s the only way!
- Sleep – or lack of it. People have a very good way of advising that you ‘rest as much as you can’ but they can fuck right off. Until they have had a human being INSIDE their body ensuring that any kind of lying down position is OUT OF THE WINDOW because it restricts your breathing then they DON’T know! I mean if I lay down I might actually stop living. STOP LIVING I TELL YOU! So… Instead I sleep bolt upright propped up with 4 pillows AND a curly whirly one which bills itself as a pregnancy life saver and might actually be telling the truth… ‘No’ I say to my darling husband batting him away like an errant dog while he tries to steal a corner of said curly whirly pillow for himself – ‘You can do one right there and while you’re at it go down to the spare bedroom and stay there you moron’. Never, EVER, Try to steal a pregnant woman’s curly whirly pillow (same goes for food and or asking if rumpy pumpy might be on the cards – it’s a wonder my husband is still breathing himself frankly)!
- Feet and hands. They blow up like balloons and fingers and toes reminiscent of sausages will be bestowed upon you. I’m not even talking about nice sausages mind, none of that 98% meat ‘specially selected’ up Aldi ones… Oh no… These beauties come straight out of a packet of Walls, they might even be those horrendapoo German ones. Limp, insipid, fat riddled, full of crap sausages lurking about on the ends of your fat hands and feet (cocktail versions in the latter case). Unable to take jewellery (not that you’d want to show them off) and looking like you might have been a builder for the last decade. The only thing worse than the Fatty Arbuckle cocktail sausage toes is the fact that you will almost certainly get what I like to term ‘council estate feet’ and rank, colourless nails. Your heels will be dry and cracked and nail varnish isn’t going anywhere near you because in the first instance you can’t bloody reach them to do anything about it and in the second, any pedicurist worth a grain of integrity would shy away from your rancid little tootsies quicker than you can say ‘Oh ok, how about just the Walls finest on my hands then’?
- Talk about reach… When it comes to your undercarriage you may as well forget it and know that any form of lady pruning is going to have to take a very firm back seat! Overgrown and wild is going to be the very least of your problems when it comes to what others see while you’re in the throws though so don’t stress too much. The fact that you look like a yeti down there will pale into insignificance once he sees what else is going on in that garden of wonder – and yes he will look, it doesn’t matter how many ‘deals’ you’ve made, he’s gonna whip down there quick smart out of curiosity killing the cat alone and there isn’t anything you can do about it. But think of it like this, by the time the medical students come around to have a butchers en masse, the entire gyne department in your area will have probably seen it ALL, so it really doesn’t matter much that your beloved will too! Just to prepare you let’s describe it like it is: The dipsticks describe it as flowers opening? Oh sod that! Flower shmower – think more like deep sea creature made of jelly. BIG. And PINK. And ANGRY. And open. And believe me it’s gonna stay that way for a while too. You know when you’re a bit over weight and your boobs clap as you run down the stairs without a bra on… Other stuff can clap too. And let’s just leave it there!
- Only we can’t leave it there because round the other end of the downstairs cracker region you’re gonna basically have a bunch of grapes hanging out your arse and that my friend is also the more beautiful way of describing it. All that pushing. All that straining and whether you do a shite on the table to accompany your little bundle of joy is going to be the furthest from your mind because first will pop out the over boiled up veins in ALL their bloody glory just ready to torture you every time you even THINK about going to the toilet. Oh! And you might be forgiven for thinking this is a problem you will be dealing with AFTER that baby bundle has appeared but nope, I’m here to tell you it can come and strike at any time of pregnancy and here as I sit (on one cheek let it be said – two is too painful), I’m full term yet a couple of weeks away from birth knowing these little blue bulging beauties who have already arrived are only going to get worse once I start to push a human being out of my faloola. Now THIS is joyous!
- Hormones and your other half. Oh we all joke about them don’t we and it’s oh so cute when someone on T.V is having a baby and they cry because their partner goes to the shop and forgets the bananas but… IT’S. A. REAL. THING! You will feel anger like you’ve never experienced before when the hubster goes to the corner shop to buy a tin of prunes (remember the arse grapes) and comes back with pears. You may even have murderous thoughts and wonder (out loud if you’re me) what kind of life insurance he has. Basically you need to know (and so does he) that he will do no right in the formative and latter months of pregnancy. The middle bit and it’s a possibility that he won’t irritate you to the point of distraction but even then… You MUST blame it on the hormones when you NEVER admit to deliberately not filling up his car as promised simply because he only poured you half a glass of water when you wanted a full one. It will be them again and not you who HAS to take the blame when you burn his shirt because he breathed a bit too deeply. And… at the end of the day it’s also the hormones fault when you throw something hard at him for simply being in the room. (This is just taken from stories people have told me – not me gov… Promise!)
- ALL the flipping waiting around at the great expense of the NHS and boredom of yourself. Needles for this, jabs for that, scans every few minutes to see goodness knows what. God forbid you mention the fact you can’t lie down and stay breathing because you’ll be sent for an ECG which will take approximately 43 days. You will be sent from pillar to post, have to walk about 29 miles within the badly signposted hospital and then someone will vaguely say they think you need to come back and repeat it another day because the results were pretty foggy – it’s probably a dodgy machine you see ha ha ha ha ha, isn’t that funny. You will wait at your Doctors surgery for a total of 5 weeks when you add up all the hours sitting in the queue for the midwife and when you forget, because you’re bloody pregnant with a pregnant brain of mush, that you weren’t supposed to drink half a cup of tea before the glucose test they will tell you off and make you wait for another 3 hours before they advise you they can’t, because of the tea, do the test anymore. Basically get used to sitting on uncomfortable chairs (on one bum cheek naturally – the grapes again) for a really long period of time.
- People will touch you. ALL the time. And at the same time they will say ‘Oh, you don’t mind if I touch you do you?’ while grinning at you inanely and prodding at your bloated belly which makes you look like a frog about to get dissected. ‘YES I mind!’ I want to scream ‘Get your fucking filthy paws off me you moron’ (and this is just what I want to say to my best friend – the man on the tube, postman and old lady in the corner shop might get it worse believe me)! They, people that is, also have opinions on everything. Sodding PEOPLE. You will be TOO big (not just big), TOO small, low down, high up, look like you’ve been pregnant forever… This actually continues after birth you must note and EVEN when you have a baby in a pram and the commentator has JUST said what a MAHOOSIVE baby boy your daughter is before pointing out that the baby is probably cold and in need of another (better probably) blanket, they will ask you, straight faced, when you are due because clearly your still ‘welded to your body going nowhere bump’, although floppy like now and no longer hard and standing proud, is still very much present and the dick head who won’t stop pestering and pawing at you can’t make the equation that baby in buggy = birth taken place! RUDE!
- This last point is directed at labour itself. If you’ve not been there before then this may stun you somewhat. Labour is HARD. Really bloody hard. And when your waters break three days before the contractions begin and NOT immediately before you leave the ladies loos in the Queen Vic (East Enders really do speed things up and take liberties – artistic license) don’t be surprised. 96 hours of labouring with a contraction every 2 hours is perfect. Wonderful in fact and just the ticket for building you right up for it… Getting you prepared. I’m joking. It’s NOT. By the time you get to the pushing stage you will be exhausted and JUST as you think ‘FUCK’S sake, I’m going to die, NO ONE can have EVER, EVER lived through this’ while it feels like a big red bus is pummelling you repeatedly from the inside out, you will note that this is the worst pain you have ever experienced in your entire life and say, ney, SHOUT, NEVER again. You will ask if you are going to die because it feels, not for the first time this pregnancy, like you actually just might. You will grip onto HIM as he asks the midwife ridiculous questions like ‘How much longer will this go on for, I don’t think I can take much more?!’ (Poor poppet) and wish that you’d never set eyes on him all in the same flash. Your poo coming out (which you really don’t care about now remember) feels like it might be a baby but as you watch the midwife wipe your arse and peer back down there you will realise it’s STILL not sodding born and you have to push a bit more. And more. And more. It is basically like the end of the flipping world and boy… You want it to be!
And then it happens. The baby is born. Finally. The head has come out followed by a body and a surge of other crap and shite which was swilling around inside you for the last 9 months and it’s all over. And this is where it gets good. I swear… Because those minutes previously when you were shouting and screaming about NEVER AGAIN have just magically disappeared. And honestly, for all my moaning, I promise you, all of the previous points pale into insignificance as you look at this darling little creature you and that bloke who’s been pissing you off for the last 40 weeks created together. And you will never stop looking at that creature ever again. You won’t even care about the arse grapes anymore – Arnica was made for a reason – and no, it doesn’t work, you will definitely need Cocodamol! I hate to say it because it makes a mockery of this entire blog post but… It is all absolutely buggering worth it and… You’ll probably do it again!
Except me this time. I am SO done… Three times is enough mate… Absolutely enough!