I was so horrendously broody for ages. We got married in August last year and after waiting a decent four months decided to just go for it.
After all, with two already and a plethora of everyone else’s children in and out of the house all the time, we reckon we’re pretty much experts at this parenting lark, right?
The Rock God came into our lives when The Pie was three and The Boy was four, so he’s keen to do the baby thing for the first time. He is an absolutely fantastic parent, much better than me in fact. He is motivated and patient and laid back and fun. A good counterpoint to my Benign Neglect style of parenting.
So. It turns out we are massively fertile and after just one month of frantic shagging, the job is done and I am knocked up. Hurrah!
The vomiting started immediately. Oh the joy. And the fatigue kicked in soon after. All I did for the first couple of months was cry, sleep and puke. A bit like being a newborn myself really.
We consoled ourselves with the promise of the second trimester being the bit where I glow. Except the second trimester turned out to be the bit where the bone crushing agony of SPD/PGP kicked in.
Heard of it? I hadn’t, really. I’d had some niggles towards the end of my pregnancy with The Pie, and apparently that was the start of it. It gets worse with subsequent pregnancies. Oh joy. Basically my pelvis is splitting apart at the seams. It’s as much fun as it sounds, and judging by the packed out physio session I attended, it’s pretty common too.
As advised I invested in a support belt (useless), dutifully started the exercises they prescribed and bought a birthing ball to sit on. And got my head around the pain (sort of) and got on with it.
And now here we are at 35+5. I am so happy to be having a baby, really. We have been told he’s a boy, we’ve picked out names, we speak to him and sing to him. I’ve decorated and bought nursery equipment in a frenzy of nesting. The whole family sit with their hands on my tummy, feeling his MASSIVE kicks and punches and rumbles, which is lovely.
But I am secretly (well ok, not so secretly) SO miserable. I can’t sleep, I can barely walk, I am so tired I feel sick. I am ratty as hell. I can’t drink coffee (gone right off it) and even wine has lost its allure. The Rock God is pissing me off through no fault of his own on a daily basis, poor man, not to mention the kids (is it the end of the holidays yet?). The adorable kicks and punches FUCKING HURT. My pelvis feels like it’s made of glass and shattering slowly. I can’t turn over in bed without searing agony, and I’m sweating like a disgusting pig.
I told you I was moaning.
I’ll cheer up in a minute.