8 Weeks To Go - Bum Nuggets & Bedfordshire

32 Weeks Pregnant

Baby size : Pineapple

How I feel : Yoyo-like but rallying!

Poo, shit, kaka, crap, bum nuggets, chocolate bananas, doodoo, faeces, turds, sewer trout. Whatever I decide to call it, I’m going to get close to it, embrace it, become immune to it, be excited by it, be covered in it. Its going to get in my clothes, in my hair, in my couch, in hubby’s beard and most probably in my mouth. Yup, in the next few years I’m literally going to eat shit. This isn’t some lucrative porn business, oh no, it’s just having a baby. My fondness for poo will begin in labour I'm told.  You positively shit yourself while having a baby, and here’s the big news - it ain’t no thing! Midwives love it apparently. When I feel the need to poo I should be delighted as it means baby is close to being OUT. Shitting myself = champagne. Who knew? When those little nuggets of joy pop out they will be followed by my big nugget of joy - baby. Wohoo! Then The Big Turd Immunity of 2015 will really begin. Starting with a sticky black substance called meconium (babies first poo) and followed by years of wiping and cleaning and changing and washing. Yes, the poo phase of my life is about to begin and I must welcome it.




We attended a hypnobirthing course this week. I hadn’t heard of Hypnobirthing before a colleague recommended it, but in a nutshell, it’s a birthing technique where you work with your birthing partner and aim to breathe your baby out using self hypnosis and breathing techniques. I loved the course. Labour need not be painful it suggests. Labour can be a calm and beautiful experience it says. I really want to have this beautiful experience, so we’re doing our homework - the massage, the affirmations, the relaxation exercises, the breathing, the whole shebang! I’ll let you know how it turns out… We stuck up the recommended affirmations around our house. YOU ARE A STRONG AND CAPABLE WOMAN shouts the toilet. ALL THE STRENGTH I NEED IS WITHIN ME barks the fridge. I’m forcing myself to get used to these phrases because as of now, I feel like my fridge and toilet are bullying me. What if I’m not strong? What if I’m not capable? I reserve the right to be a blathering mess goddamnit! It’s at this point I realise the hormones I’ve heard rumours about have finally found me. I feel incredibly vulnerable and incredibly capable all the time, at the same time. They’re co-existing and I’m telling you now, it’s a minefield in here. My mind at the moment - ‘Riona, you could totally climb Everest you heavenly goddess you’... 30 seconds later… ‘FOOOOOOOOL, get your fat arse under that duvet and don’t come out until you’ve eaten all the pringles and dairy milk and have had someone bring you potatoes.’ I’ve had Brene Brown’s TED talks (watch them if you can, they’re amazing) on vulnerability and shame for breakfast, lunch and dinner - as well as chocolate of course, and they are brilliant. My sneaking suspicion is that confidence in life, leads to confidence in birth so I’m working my bum off to make that happen. There have been some interesting obstacles, for example I’ve had a few insults wrapped up in friendly laughter this week. We all know these little phrases. ‘Haha remember when you wore THAT dress, oh it was lovely but, haha it was so different haha’. I didn’t even know the ‘dress’ was up for debate or discussion, and to channel Carrie Bradshaw, it was ‘fabulous’, so feck off. I’m not sure why some people feel the need to put others back in their boxes. Well, I’ve not had an overconfident day in my life so if I’ve managed to fool some feckers into thinking I’m too big for my boots, I’m going to take that as a sign of success with a modicum of wohoo! and a pinch of screw you!!!




This week I also found myself half naked in a room with ten techy men with lots of hair. Now, in my student days this would have sent me into a horny sex fuelled frenzy. Hairy techy men are my thing. So there I was, lying down on a luxurious carpet, trying to be all nonchalant about it all, with the sexy hairy techies bringing me pillows and water and making sure my every need was catered for. Oh god it was good. The sex fantasy was rudely interrupted by the reality of my glistening naked bump being stared at by all. Hubby and I somehow managed to fool a big company into employing us to be ‘happy pregnant couple’ in a commercial! One of these sexy hairy techies was my non actor husband who had to pretend to feel baby move for the first time. He valiantly held his own in front of a big production team by channelling Jeff Goldblum when he first saw those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. It was big people, it was big. I’m hoping we’ll get to see him in all his acting glory (I was more the background figure, the baby vessel) on telly. It would make me laugh certainly (as long as I don’t look like a beached whale, then I’ll cry) and also pay for this (tiny) car we need when we move to the country.




Yes! We get the keys to our new house TOMORROW. We’re about to become homeowners. I daren’t say it out loud, because….


Donovan : ‘As you can see now Dr Jones, we’re on the verge of completing a quest… we’re just one step away’
Indiana : ‘That’s usually when the ground falls out from underneath your feet’.


So, we MIGHT be moving outside of London this week - only 40 minutes mind you but it’s not my beloved London is it? It’s Bedfordshire for crying out loud! I thought this was somewhere Bridget Jones had made up. Now I’m going to (maybe!) live there, on a quiet country road where we know zero people. Zero. We’re going to have to be SOCIAL. The introverts among you will understand this pain. We’ll have to speak to strangers, constantly, everyday, in REAL LIFE. We’re going to join all the groups we can but it’s a conundrum when you’re half introvert half extrovert like me and the hubby. I crave people, friends, contact, community, interaction, chat, but the creation of really good friends is a long process. I don’t really make instant friends unless I’m wankered in a toilet at 3 in the morning, then all bets are off and we bond over crazy men, tampon needs and vomit and we exchange numbers and can’t believe how fantastic we are. However the one’s I do make sans whiskey and wine over time - they last. Pretty much forever so far, and yes they’re all amazing, I’m riddled with them, the bastards are just not in Bedfordshire!

9 Weeks To Go - Orgasms and Elephants

31 Weeks Pregnant


Baby size : Coconut


How I Feel : Liberated. Excited. Sore.


Orgasmic. Glorious. Sexual. Euphoria. These are words that have soothed and placated me this week. Mothers have sought me out to help me and share stories about how labour is not all pain, fear, tubes and needles. I'm happily shocked. The way they tell it, labour sounds like a fantastically filthy racy romp through a sex party in chelsea. Yes! There are women out there who find labour to be an empowering, fierce, animalistic experience and holy shit do I want a piece of that! It sounds idyllic and too good to be true I hear you say? Well, this is straight from the horse's mouth and I love it. I adore it in fact. I've said before how I want all the horror stories and sexy details right up there in my face. Don't dress it up or down for me or wrap it in a bow of denial or optimism. If I know what I'm in for good OR bad, I can consider it, brave it and go into this labour joyful, fearless and beating my chest shouting BRING THIS SHIT (literally) ON. If I end up trembling, whimpering and beating my husband*, then that's fine too. I'll just happily take the drugs and off we go. 

I'm doing a hypnobirthing course next week so of course I think maybe I'll be one of them, all zen and mother earth. I'll meditate all the way through until I orgasm, wince gently, baby will slip calmly out and we'll all laugh and think how glorious it all was. Hey, people are telling me this is possible!!!! The cynic in me is roaring but I'm telling her to piss off and get on board the orgasmic birth train. A woman can dream can't she? Saying all that though, I have absolutely no reason to doubt these women's experiences. I really hope and sort of believe I can share them, but holy hell, if I don't come out of this feeling like Beyonce at Glastonbury, I'll be very, very upset.


Once my glorious sex birth is over, reality will of course hit home. Just for now, allow me to gloss over the fantastic experience that meeting my son will be and allow me to concentrate on the bigger issue here - knickers. I went into the snake pit this week - the biggest, cheapest High Street Store of them all. I shudder even at the thought as I’d usually rather vomit up my favourite dinner than darken it’s doorway, but I did it. I did it for one noble reason. To buy gigantic post birth knickers. After I give birth I’m told I could bleed for weeks. Hurrah! I can't even wear sanitary towels no no. I must wear specially made industrial size pads fit for a camel and waddle around with them and possibly some ice packs in my pants. No knicker of mine has ever held such mirth, and I've got a big arse to contain! It was time to bring in the big guns and god damn it I did it. These knickers are huge. Some are frilly, some are patterned in the vain hope of allowing me to maintain some sort of feminine sex appeal. But seeming as I could fit the titanic in them that might be a tad over ambitious. Bring on the ice packs and industrial pads I say. I'm ready.


Kate Middleton looked pretty good post birth right? She hid her giant knickers very well. Go girl! I’m very happy for her and I think she’s gorgeous and heavenly too, but before we all slip into whimsical adoration mode, riddle me this - if each and every one of us had designers sending us dresses, stylists, hairdressers, makeup artists and PA's to hand us frozen bags of peas for our swollen vaginas every five minutes, wouldn't we appear gorgeous, relaxed and media ready too? Of course we would! However despite all this, I don't envy her. Imagine the pressure to look that good after squeezing a cabbage through a keyhole and shitting yourself in public? Although I’m assured I won’t give a damn how I look post birth, I don’t want to look back on the pictures and see Jabba The Hut holding my baby. If I think I look like an elephant on crack, I know that no matter how special the moment is, I will edit my oompa loompa head out of those pictures, and that would be such a shame. I know that’s not a particularly ‘fuck you world media and your pressure’ thing to say. Mmmmm. The feminist in me says ‘oh get over yourself’, the subconscious media trained pony in me says ‘keep your makeup kit at the top of the hospital bag’.


When you’re pregnant, the overwhelming reaction to bump is oohs and aahs, wonder and awe. I have to admit I love it! I love the stroking, touching, minding and attention as much as any self respecting yorkshire terrier wagging their tail. Every now and then however, I meet someone who does not rub my belly, give me treats or find my bark cute. I’ve had a hand extended towards my bump accompanied by the expected ‘ooh’ sounds, when suddenly it recoils limply, like an average penis in the mens shower room with Arnold Schwarzenegger. The ‘ooh’ quickly turns to ‘eugh’, the happy face turns sucked-on-a-lemon sour and said hand is unceremoniously wrenched away. Aha! So there are some people in the world who are unsure about how natural this is! The freakish, alien nature of pregnancy is bigger to them than the beauty of it. In a weird way this makes me feel good. It’s reminding me that although my body thinks nothing of this pregnancy and mocks my mind daily for giving it as much thought as I do, that it isn’t this mundane, average experience. It IS slightly alien to me, it IS a big deal and it IS really special. Phew! Thanks for the reminder!


This week, I also succumbed to sciatica, passed my driving test and exchanged on our house. All big things I would usually drown out/celebrate with copious amounts of wine. Instead, I sat on the couch watching Grand Designs, drinking tea and ticking more things off the To Do list. Jesus. I have so much to making up to do with the wine gods when baby is out. Beware. It could get really ugly.




*The fear on his face when he read this. I'm speaking metaphorically of course....

10 Weeks To Go - C**ts and Battlefields

30 Weeks Pregnant

Baby size : A large head of cabbage

How I Feel : Invincible and vulnerable.  All at the same time!

*If you’re offended by ‘bad’ language skip the first paragraph, no, the first two paragraphs……. OK just don’t read this*

My dear sweet nana had a great saying, ‘If it looks like a cunt and it smells like a cunt, chances are, it’s a cunt’.* Excuse me for mixing my metaphors, but I refer of course to that trojan horse of a friend/family member, who rocks up with a vintage bottle of joy, then proceeds to vomit gifts of stress, guilt and upset all over your brand new white carpet, leaving you to deal with the fallout and mess. I mean, isn’t emotional manipulation THE BEST?!

What I’m wondering is, will motherhood and my ‘higher priority’ demand I endorse less crap from these people?  Will I become fantastic at wheedling the feckers out before the vomiting begins? Right now, I’m all Empathy and Flowers, trying to analyse and understand in order to make sense of their actions - there is great love there after all.  Sometimes though, I get weary.  I don’t want to figure out the whys of why you’re being an aresehole.  Just STOP BEING AN ARESHOLE.  I’m bored of trying to understand.  Let’s face it, sometimes, SOMETIMES, empathy is overrated.  

Luckily, I also got time with non trojans this week.  I swanned home, grinning like a mated bull, at 2am Saturday morning, happily soaked in wine and vodka after a night out in Soho.  Ah, just like the old days.  Unfortunately/fortunately I had only a sniff of wine and some virgin cocktails.  The wine and vodka soaking came courtesy of some of my favourite women, unafraid to spill a drop of alcohol for the greater good of a messy night.  I have to say I have not missed hungover days.  Couch bound, carb filled, hellish days, full of vulnerability and the dreaded The Fear, a sacrifice I gave willingly to the gods of wine and whiskey.  But I do miss the nights, oh the nights...

Now, vulnerability can be a fantastic thing, however, here are two occasions when it’s definitely not cool.  One - the aforementioned The Fear.  Two - when you’re on the tube with a massive bump, a fist up your arse (baby’s) and an inability to sit with your legs closed. Of course, this is when a slightly inebriated city slicker in a suit starts hitting on you.  Brilliant! There I was, minding my own business trying not to fart out loud as is the pregnancy curse, and over he comes.   I wonder, what gave him the ‘come hither’ look? The oversized baggy jumper? The worn black leggings? The mucky trainers? The fart smell I'm pretending is the chubby guy across the way? I guess that’s the ‘she was asking for it’ argument blown out of the water!  I just got off the tube.  What I should have done was climb astride him, look deep in his eyes and in a husky Demi Moore whisper, say ‘Hey lover, I’m going to pop out a kid in ten weeks, but until then, my vagina is as tight as the top of a hot water bottle, so how about we go at it right here, right now?’ Mmmmm maybe I’m not that brave…

Having sort of come to terms with Catheters and perineum slicing, our antenatal class covered C-sections this week.  Aha! I thought, maybe this will be the easy ‘too posh to push’ birth I can fall back on should it all get too much in the delivery room.  Heeheeheehahaha. What shower of eejits are floating this idea? A C-section sounds horrendous!!! Like being shredded-by-a-lawn-mower horrendous. It’s full on abdominal surgery for crying out loud!  After surgery isn’t it the legal requirement to stay in bed watching Breaking Bad for two weeks? Well, Walt isn’t going to change nappies! Jesse isn’t going to feed baby! Hank isn’t going to bring me pizza!  I admit it, I have wronged and chastised many women on the telly.  All because they ‘moaned’ about having a section.  Now I TOTALLY get it. What martyr on a cross could not be mildly tempted by a teeny tiny moan of fear about being cut open and immediately made primary carer for a helpless blob of lovely neediness? Labour is like a Monty Python sketch everyone is ignoring.  ‘Oh, look! I’ve had my arm chopped off but don’t worry about me, I’m off to do the milk run.  Oh, there goes my leg too, never mind, I’ll hop...’  I have no desire to be dramatic but neither would I like to be dismissed because ‘people do it every day’. Can we fall somewhere in the middle please?  

The more I learn the more I’m in awe of this birthing process.  Why are all the speeches in movies about going into battle specifically about war? It'll certainly feel like marching into battle when I go into labour, no matter how I do it.  Blood - check! Guts - check! Glory (in form of baby) - check! It’s a fecking battle!  Of course I’ll want cooing, fluttering and reassuring, but god damn it I want some inspiration!!! Where is my ‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning’? My ‘They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our FREEDOM’? Where?!  If I knew Judi Dench** I’d beg her to paraphrase Aragorn…

‘Sisters of gas & air, of cesareans.  I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come, when the courage of women fails, when we forsake our ideals and all bonds of sisterhood, but it is not this day! Hours of placentas and vaginal tears, when the age of women comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we push! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you, PUSH, women of the world!’

*my Nana would NEVER have used this word.  She called her poo her coakseorum, and her breasts her kinoblers! She was brilliant.   

** Two friends are working with Judi right now and I am sick for them.  It must be truly awful.  No, seriously, Stav, Mike, tell her I love her!

11 Weeks To Go - Boobs and Tubes

29 Weeks Pregnant

Baby size : Butternut Squash

How I Feel : Cocky and afraid of being cocky, it can’t possibly be this smooth a journey can it?*

Catheters.  Like Spiders - ungoogleable.  There might be IMAGES.  Images somewhere of small tubes going into small holes. I don’t want to think about that.  At all. I used to sing for and brow beat lovely grannies into exercising in care homes all over London, and if there was an accompanying bag, I would never under any circumstances make eye contact with it.  Now, a catheter might be put inside me in order to get baby out. You see, during birth, baby might block my bladder causing it to overfill and stretch - not good in the long run apparently.  Look, I know that those of you who have had babies will be laughing at me.  A little teeny tiny tube will be the least of my worries when there’s a HUMAN coming out of my vagina.  For some unfathomable reason, I can cope with thoughts of labour (maybe I’m in denial) but it’s all the little details that are terrifying.  Maybe I shouldn’t be attending these antenatal classes at all. Maybe it’s best to fly blind and stay ignorant to catheters and perineum slicing.  I would be innocently and blissfully happy. I could just waltz up to the hospital, bottle of prosecco in hand and proclaim to the midwife ‘sweety, give me all the drugs and go to town down there’.  Like a really jaded prostitute.  No?

My Mom told me last night that all three of us siblings came between two and four weeks early. FEAR! This baby is simply not allowed to come early, does he not know I have a LIST???!!! Early babies do not necessarily run in families, but of course my mind is now fully expecting baby mid June instead of mid July.  I’ll still be doing a west end show.  I can see it now, I’m dressed as my vile unglamorous canteen lady with a greasy ginger wig and a hair net, sitting spread eagle (that’s how she sits) down stage, and my waters break all over the front row.  Nearly fifteen hundred gleefully horrified audience members look on while two drenched ones writhe in internal bodily fluid disgust! I try and make it look like it’s all part of the show and flawlessly achieve this with an inspired monologue about canteen lady oppression before breaking into ‘When The Levee Breaks’ by Led Zeppelin.  I might be overthinking this slightly.

In a 13 point list update (find this in my blog bio), things are getting crossed off! Yay!  I’ve had some great work meetings, we’re about to agree on a completion date on the house (cross everything) and driving lessons are going well.  In fact, everything is going well.  When everything is going well the temptation to go into blind panic mode is strong.  All the disaster scenarios flash in and out of my mind.  Pregnancy can’t be this straight forward can it? I’ve heard all the horror stories, why are none of them happening to me?  I really feel I should be doing five Hail Mary’s and seven Our Fathers to even things out. Catholic guilt has a lot to answer for.  Jaysus.    

What I have gained from this ease of creating life, is a new found appreciation of my body.  ‘I’ am doing absolutely nothing, zero, zilch.  I’m just carrying on with my life.  My body however is a fricking superstar! It’s just getting on with it, no fuss, no drama, nothing, it’s just being awesome.  I’m flinging gratitude about like a lasso just now because I know that it could have been very different for me.  It still could become really different for me so gratitude, gratitude, gratitude is the name of the game.  

So yes, my body seems to love pregnancy. The only things that aren’t cooperating are my boobs.  They haven’t gotten any bigger, isn’t that supposed to be one of the perks? This week they have sprung into action mind you, not getting bigger, but producing some sort of cheese!!!  It was after a shower I noticed it, a weird discolouration on my nipples that on closer inspection, turned out to be tiny lumps of cheesey stuff.  What the hell is that??? Now I have read that colostrum (your first milk) might make an appearance this week but no one said anything about being a fecking cheddar factory.  I had to prize them off, like scrapings off a grater, without breaking my nipples.  I felt like an alien cow.  I suppose it does make sense, obviously cheese comes from milk but, really? I had been joking in work, that when I do make an appearance to our final show party in September, that the White Russians are on me!!! Breast milk and vodka - mmmmm.  I didn’t realise I’d be able to supply the bloody cheese board as well.  

*Onion bhaji alert! Did feel nauseous this morning but OK now so I’m putting it down to the onion bhaji’s and pint of milk I had at 11pm last night.  

12 Weeks To Go

28 Weeks Pregnant

Baby size : Cauliflower

How I Feel : Sciatica may be looming… There’s something in my left arse cheek that feels questionable.  But other than that potential threat, really really good! Hate me, go on.

So this week I’ve made a few discoveries.  I’ve been concentrating on making new work contacts before I have to leave my current job to go on maternity leave.  In my line of work there are zero guarantees (it’s a true miracle I can get maternity leave) and if I don’t continue to add to my CV while I’m ‘off’ (I promise I’m using that word very lightly) I fear any new employers will see me as being stagnant and undesirable.  Brilliant right?!  This means a lot of time spent at my kitchen table drinking sugary tea and sending emails.  I’ve also been continuing with driving lessons - it's three weeks until my test BTW.  Both of these things mean sitting for long periods, in a slightly forward position, and this has led to horrible discovery number one : The Brotch.

The Brotch (definition) : part of the body trapped between the bump and the crotch.

Charming I know.  The weather is getting warmer and The Brotch is unforgiving.  There I am, stuck to a patch of my own sweat, trapped in the driving seat, pretending to think about the biting point while my instructor gets impatient with the drivers getting impatient with me while I get impatient with The Brotch. I have had to change my mortified knickers on numerous undignified occasions - thankfully not mid lesson, that would be a Bridget Jones film, but I'm not ruling it out!  New pregnancy lesson - sitting + sun = bring spare knickers.   

On another note, we attended our first antenatal class this week.  To begin, we sat in a circle and one by one introduced ourselves and named one thing we would like to learn in class.  Hubby was itching to say something 'funny', I could smell it off him! I thought, this could go either way, so when he got a laugh* the relief was palpable - in both of us!  Admittedly our need to be liked isn't our most attractive quality....

My aim is this : I want to know how to keep baby alive. The basics right?  How do I not kill my child in the first fortnight. My way of coping when baby is born will undoubtedly be to batten down the hatches, order pizza and get my shit together - both figuratively and literally if the rumours about all these pads I'll need are true.  So, I need to know : how do I change a nappy, how do I not drop him, how do I feed him, how do I prevent my boobs turning into bloody oozing lumps of pain, how do I put him to sleep, how do I not kill my husband when I’m riddled with fear and uncertainty???  All these things I want to and will discover!  

The people in class all seem lovely - as most people do upon first meeting.  No one is going to show up shouting ‘Hey, I’m the arsehole you’re going to hate’! But I’m sure he or she is in there somewhere.  We had the usual 'we're mingling with strangers' fear. You might think we’d be relieved befriending a group of people where we all had something in common.  My fear was and is that pregnancy is ALL we’ll have in common!  What if my small talk runs out after the first meeting?  Oh lord how I love and loathe small talk,  it is my saviour and my downfall.  I didn’t even have my usual social crutch : wine.  Hubby and I desperately stared at each other with panicked eyes when we felt we weren’t mingling as fantastically as other parents-to-be.  We were both so relieved when we ended up having chats about hospital access and the price of London living.  Who knew these things were SO fascinating!!! Later on though, one mom-to-be mentioned wine as a potential labour comfort, next week I’m going to try to sit next to her.  We could be friends.  Definitely.  

At the very end of class came the second BRILLIANTLY LOVELY discovery - my husband gets to massage my PERINEUM.

Perineum (definition) : the area between the anus and the vulva or scrotum.

Haha!  Yes!  Lucky him.  You see there’s a chance (or a certainty - I haven’t figured that out yet) that my perineum will either split open itself, or be sliced neatly open with a knife to allow baby more room upon his exit.  Isn’t it just wonderful?! I can’t wait!  We’ve already discussed the positions this procedure could occur in.  I can just imagine watching Game Of Thrones on all fours while hubby goes at it with our oil of choice.  Do we try to be sexy? I’m not feeling very turned on here at the table with my tea thinking of the perineum rub.  Would he wear a glove? It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the area, but it all seems so clinical and practical! You wouldn’t exactly get the candles and a bottle of wine out for the perineum rubbing now would you? I’ll keep you updated, or maybe I won’t…

*Hubbys aim was to figure out what buggy to buy - a true new parenting minefield!  More on that later though. 

13 Weeks To Go

26 weeks pregnant*

Baby size : aubergine

How I feel : stretched, need naps, chocolate is God, but pretty great ‘considering’...

Yesterday, as I walked down the stairs towards **Frank, he said ‘Oh here she is, the Pregosaurus’.

Think about it...  ‘Oh here she is, the Pregosaurus’.  

Just another minute.

Ya.  Pregosaurus.  Holy mother of divine shite.  

I’m somehow being compared to a dinosaur.  Holy shit balls. I definitely don’t want to be compared in any way to a huge, old, extinct, past it, wide, heavy, plodding, leathery creature.  It definitely doesn’t make me feel like I’m ‘blossoming‘ or ‘glowing’, words which I’ve pretty much come to demand in my head when people feel compelled to comment on my appearance. I mean, lets be honest, those are the only acceptable words to use when referring to a pregnant woman. Frank clearly hasn’t gotten that memo!

I mean, I feel good, I think I’m looking pretty well.  Keeping in mind that most of me is expanding, ‘pretty well’ right now equates to me ‘normally’ looking Pretty Fucking Fabulous in my opinion.  So that’s all I want to hear, how bloody great I’m looking and how well I’m doing and that is the full extent of it please.  Not ‘well,  considering...’.  Not ‘well, despite of...’  Just - well! Frank may as well have stuck a sign on my thickening arse saying ‘WIDE LOAD’.  Pregosaurus comments are NOT welcome.  

Another curious thing is the amount of friends (all men) who have asked me how my sex drive is and if I’m still having sex with my husband.  One guy asked me with genuine concern whether my husband was turned off by my pregnancy.  If I’d answered ‘yes’ I think my husband would have been in grave danger so at least I know this guy has my back, but LORD, I didn’t realise it was cool to broach questions like that before 2am, a third bottle of wine and a cheese board!

It didn’t even occur to me that my husband would not want to have sex with me.  Whether that potentially be because he was repulsed by my bump, or think that having sex would in some way invade the baby’s space or for any other reason people may have.  I think my brain blocked that thought out.  With everything else going on in my life, my brain just assumed that my husband was not a wanker who only saw my widening form and that was the end of that conversation.  For the record, I’m not privy to a lot of things that go on in my head.  If things are obvious to my brain, it just doesn’t go there and analyse them.  If I thought for one second that my husband didn't want to have sex with me because I was pregnant, this blog would be a HELL of a lot longer.  There would be empty cans and worms bloody well EVERYWHERE.  Anyway, I don’t want to say I’m ‘grateful’ that my husband doesn’t see me as a Pregosaurus - because I should be able to take that for granted for feck sake - but I suppose I am.  I feel good, I look good (thank you hairpieces and make-up for being heavily involved in that) and despite eating enough cream eggs to keep the sugar levels of a small town sky high, I’m healthy.  

So, overall, I’m still excited and optimistic about the next 13 weeks.  In that time I will become a parent and a homeowner, work 6 days a week, plan and prepare for post pregnancy work, try to see all my friends before I can never leave the house again without military style planning, learn to drive and pass my test, work on new writing projects and, above all, figure out how in the name of jaysus I’m going to keep a small baby alive having never changed a nappy in my life.  This is all doable right?

* In case my maths bug the geniuses out there, I'm 26 and a bit weeks pregnant with 13 and a bit weeks to go.  Two bits equals one in my book, bringing it to a nice round 40 weeks of pregnancy :-)

**his name's not Frank