My Pregnancy: Through The Lens

A photo is said to be worth a thousand words. Therefore, following this logic, I figured 15 photos equate to 15,000 words. A word count like that (1.5 times a thesis!) kinda makes up for my absence over the last 6 months or so (?!), and simultaneously frees me from engaging my writing brain at least for the next week…Let’s face it, functioning on an average of 6 hrs (relatively a lot I know…) broken in c.3 slots a night, I need all the shortcuts this life can afford me.

Here’s a recap of my pregnancy in photos.

14 weeks pregnant: Me wearing what were to become my beloved, and pregnancy clothing staple. It was always a darker day when the dungarees were in the wash! I’m still deliberating whether dungarees could be a postpartum look.

19 weeks pregnant: I guess I was going for the fresh-faced look??

22 weeks pregnant: I know what you’re thinking…great hair. I know, I think so too. I also think that my downward trajectory of letting myself go, started here: On this day, at the precise moment I tied that horrific pony tail.

24 weeks pregnant: Christmas Day shot 1

24 weeks pregnant: Christmas Day shot 2

24 weeks pregnant: Christmas Day shot 3. Third time lucky …this was the photo lucky enough to make it onto my carefully curated Facebook feed…

26 weeks pregnant: Feeling like I’d really ‘popped’ here.

27 weeks pregnant: A good piece of advice to take on board when buying your maternity wardrobe? Avoid patterns! My goodness this tartan skirt was a challenge to ‘style’ (not sure I’m entitled to use such a word looking back at these photos).

35 weeks pregnant: I really took on board the advice that black is ‘slimming’, as my washboard abs attest to.

36 weeks pregnant: Nesting away. I want to shout at the Georgia in this photo to ‘climb into bed…you’ll never get this chance again!!’. She wouldn’t listen. She was a hormonal, stubborn character.

38 weeks + 5 days pregnant: Taken two days before my c-section. Trying to take myself seriously. Well as serious as I could, wearing a tent.

38 weeks + 5 days pregnant: Realising tent me is a joke…oh the shame.

Given I have no shame now, I have to share the photo I sent to my mum (along with the rest of my immediate family) when I decided to dress like a Crow. If you’re a GoT fan, or indeed ever seen GoT (in which case read: Game of Thrones), you (may) understand why I thought it was absolutely hilarious to send the following photo with the caption ‘Winter is coming’ to my family. I was also a little giddy at the prospect of the impending final series release date. My mum, neither a fan nor having watched a single GoT episode, responded to my shared photo with the words (verbatim), ‘why are you dressed like that???’. If I hadn’t known it wasn’t a look, I did then hahaha! I like to think my father and brother appreciated my efforts more. So here it is:

22 weeks pregnant: My first shamefully shameless look.

38 weeks + 6 days pregnant: The first day I’d get to experience someone grabbing at my bump, and shouting ‘hello baby!’ at my rounded belly. That was a good day. I didn’t even begrudge the newsagent his overly intimate welcome. I couldn’t wait to greet my baby either.

39 weeks pregnant: 6 hrs and 9 minutes before my baby would be here. No apologies for my under eye bags (you should see them now!), I hadn’t slept an unbroken night’s sleep in 33 weeks thanks to a pregnancy bladder.

In younger sibling fashion, my brother was apparently tickled to the point of hysteria upon receiving the above photo I shared in our family WhatsApp group, as I waited for my c-section slot. According to him, ‘she is absolutely terrified. That’s her terrified face’. Why this was funny I have no clue, but the idea he was amused whilst I was practically quaking in fear does tickle me too now.

Apologies for the headless, styleless, and shameless photos. They captured my pregnancy vibe: Imperfectly imperfect.

Welcome Back…To Me!

Five months later I’ve managed to resurface a broken woman, or perhaps better described a zombie. Albeit, a more capable zombie, who is so very blessed with a beautiful and healthy five month old baby boy. Clichéd as it is to say, he is worth every sleepless night. That says a lot considering there have been over one hundred of them, and counting!

Photo: Me AKA beach ball body, 16 days before giving birth.

If I could give one piece of advice, indeed any words of wisdom to a first-time expectant mother, they would read something like this. Nothing will prepare you for the mind and body **** you will face. Since these are neither welcome nor constructive words, I will attempt to impart (because clearly I’m an obnoxious expert at this point) ten pieces of advice.

1) Plaster a smile (a vacant look will suffice if it’s all you can muster) across your face, and nod your head (but absolutely zone out) when the millionth person ‘kindly’ but unwisely advises you to ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’. My god I could have done some serious damage…at the very least head butted a number of individuals, close and strange to me alike, that pushed this mantra.

2) Don’t listen to the BS advice pedelled by maternity sites authored by desperate housewife-esque/’adored my pregnancy’ type women, which recommend batch cooking and the freezing of meals in the run-up to your EDD. Sure, this is great advice in theory. However, unless you adore cooking and/or have a penchant for running yourself into the ground (literally!), who the hell at 35+ weeks pregnant has either the energy, inclination, or even ability to stand and cook anything more than toast, without suffering a series of incapacitating braxton hicks, and swollen feet?! Also, you’ll have no time when baby is here to just be you (my ‘self-care’ is a three minute shower whilst baby sleeps, or if I’m lucky a face scrub in the shower), so just be you, and do yourself a favour by buying tons of frozen meals from Cook (not sure if there’s a US equivalent?!), and a few bags of leaves. Along with iron supplements aplenty (bring on the constipation!), and that will see you right.

3) Mentally categorise people you know into two groups. The first group will be your list of skivvies, who you’ve lined up to help out during (at least) the first twelve weeks postpartum. You can form said group by roping in your mum, female family members, friends or even dad (mine was an expert at singing baby to sleep). The second group will include individuals who will show up (not in the least bit concerned about your welfare) wanting to hold baby (even when baby is asleep for the first time in hours). This second group is not WELCOME….again at least not for the first twelve weeks postpartum…or ever again…seriously, who doesn’t care about mum after she’s been taken to the brink and back?!

4) Politely direct mum/MIL/aunt/family friend to the new advice on sleeping, nursing, weaning, crying, and the like. Meanwhile, secretly delight in the fact you too will one day be preaching outdated advice to your daughter/DIL/niece/family friend. Try to remember that deep down your female contingent only mean well… After all, you know no better/worse, and wish no more/less for your baby than the millions of women, including aforementioned female peers, who have preceded, and will succeed you.

5) Everything is ephemeral, and this too will pass (caveat: unless you decide to have another, and another…but by then you’re basically a pro/head case and it’s all okay anyway). Albeit, after many tears, hormonal outbursts, and arguments with your worse (trust me you’ll shout this a few times in the process) half.

6) Breastfeeding will be horrendous for the first 24 hours after your milk arrives. Sure you’ll wake up with pornstar boobs (and possibly stretch marks aplenty) when your milk comes in, but nursing will initially feel sadomasochistic. During the first hours after mine came in, I would literally feed baby whilst crying for the pain. Now? I absolutely love breastfeeding. It’s been one of my favourite things about motherhood. It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but if it works, it really works. Nonetheless, we as women must let everyone do what’s right for them when it comes to feeding. This means dropping the preachy act, and ‘breast is best’ mantra because my goodness motherhood is hard enough without lecturing your fellow woman on how to nourish their baby.

7) Poonamis and milkanoes are a very real phenomena. It’s in your best interest to get a nappy bucket (cheap one off Amazon will see you right), not give a s**t (since there will be plenty, literally), and for goodness sake, if you see the milk resurfacing, ensure to save baby’s clothes over your own. A two-second top change or wipe down with a water wipe (trust me your personal standards will drop considerably!) beats twisting and manipulating little limbs into a minute vest any day (or night…since initially you’ll see lots of vomit between the hours of 11pm through to 5am).

8) Accept that you’ll never have your s**t together ever again (N.B. If you never did, then you’re well on your way to becoming a mum, or imploding), and that it’s okay to have a never ending to-do list consisting of at least one of the following items at any given point in time: restock nappies, take baby to weigh-in, buy water wipes, and empty nappy bin. Of course if you’re blessed by the gods, or rather with money, then you can afford a maternity nurse. Then you can kind of pretend you don’t have a kid, and do have your s**t together, at least until her day off of course!

9) Watch Workin’ Moms on Netflix. It’s brilliant! Plus, you can pretend you’re not a negligent mother when you’ve failed to do the assigned duration of tummy time for your baby’s age group…yes it’s a thing.

10) Take photos and videos EVERY single day!

CAN WE PLEASE STOP BODY-SHAMING WOMEN?

I’d like to know when, if ever, it became socially acceptable to (a) comment on another’s size, be it to point out how thin or fat they are, and/or (b) openly compare another’s size to your own? I should hope the answer to both questions, is never. However, I’m finding myself increasingly inclined to believe we have made no such progress on the body-shaming front, and that if anything, it is more commonplace than ever to insult women with our body-fascism. Oh, and please don’t worry about this becoming a man-bashing, feminist (although I do openly identify as a SIW) rant, because perhaps unsurprisingly, it is women who are the most guilty of parties in this crime. Shame on you, you terrible anti-girl-power femmes! You make it impossible to castigate men for supposedly abhorrent sexist-driven objectification, when you insist on dishing out such cruelty to the women you seek to defend against such behaviours!

My particular aggrievance lies with individuals wanting to comment on the pregnant body. Mainly because this is my current state, and after insane levels of comments, I feel I’m pretty much an expert in this body-bashing field. As someone who has a very nondescript body-type (you’d consider me neither ‘fat’ or ‘thin’ if you were to even consider my body shape at all), pregnancy has been a body-shaming eye-opener for me. And yes, I know I’m in danger of sounding like a broken record, but I’m too pregnant (read angry) to care. You see, these size comments really are the stuff of progesterone-fuelled nightmares, and have an untold impact on the emotional wellbeing of us hormonally charged, and often paranoid child bearers. Therefore, I will continue to repeat this same ‘stop commenting on a pregnant woman’s bump’ message if it means even one pregnant woman is saved from the upset that such body-related comments have.

Perhaps the most shocking aspect of this type of body-bashing behaviour, is that most perpetrators would normally be the first to defend an individual’s right not to be aesthetically judged. Yet this freedom from insult, seems to evaporate upon their victim housing another human being. I’m assuming these individuals rationalise their behaviour on the basis they are commenting not on the individual’s size, but on that of someone else: the baby. Well here’s the thing. A woman’s bump gives no indication of the baby’s size. And what if it did? Well they’re essentially saying ‘gosh your baby is small/big for its gestational age’, which as we all know, can carry with it a myriad of potential health issues.

The other day I found myself having to defend my size to an acquaintance who already has two children, and quite frankly should have been more sensitive. Upon receiving her negative commentary that ‘you’re so small, much smaller than I was at your stage’, coupled with her disgusted expression, I (attempting to hold back my upset, and humour the lady!) suggested the height difference, my long body, or the fact I’ve never carried weight around my stomach but instead develop dumpy legs when I’ve been a bit greedy (yes I even put myself down), to somehow explain away her confusion. By the end I felt exasperated, and was beyond disheartened to learn I was not done for the day.  I was next informed by a man that my face was looking thinner and I needed to eat more (I mean what the hell?!), before later being informed by a lady that she has a bigger stomach than mine post-pizza. It’s almost laughable that my stomach should be considered the size of an unpregnant person’s even after pizza, and I say this despite having digestive issues which mean even the whiff of a gluten base causes me to balloon to King Kong proportions. Furthermore, it’s just not true…I now have to aggressively contort my face, and even back in the vicinity of a camera, so as to avoid a double chin and/or back fat (all depends on the angle…).

I would consider retaliating to these size comments by firing a devastatingly personal, and equally pointed comment in the direction of the offender, but that’s so against the matriarchy (is that even a thing?), and you know girl power…So instead I’ve settled on a far more pacifistic approach. Now, whenever I meet up with people I haven’t seen in a while, I commence our interaction by commenting on the size of my bump. I suppose I naively believe if I get there first, their inevitable bump judgement will sting less (it doesn’t)…but seriously how sad is that?!

I do wonder why these people (although let’s be honest, it’s mainly women) feel compelled to make such personal comments. What are they fuelled by? I’ve narrowed (was easy considering my tiny bump…) the driving force behind their cruelty down to all/one of the following: (a) a deep-seated insecurity which means they need to tear someone down who is openly joyous and happy at expecting a baby, (b) jealousy at the fact the pregnant individual may for once feel immune from the vanity that expectations of a ‘perfect’ body tend to bring, and so they want to remind them they’re still under the body police’s control, (c) a bizarre competitiveness? Think a ‘size off’ kind of contest (weird but no weirder than someone commenting on your bump size…), (d) insensitivity, and/or (e) I’m overthinking everything as usual. Some (including my mum) claim that people comment on my size (and others’) in a complimentary manner. This would be believable if it weren’t for the disgusted/horrified face they pull, and the disparaging manner in which they deliver their one-liner.

If you find yourself reading this and recalling the time you commented on a pregnant woman’s size, and thinking ‘I didn’t mean it like that’, well I ask you, what indeed did you mean by it? Because after extensive consulting of both current and past preggos, I can confidently and passionately declare that we didn’t like it, we don’t like it, and we’re left dumbfounded by your insensitivity every time (since you insist on repeating the bump comments EVERY single time we meet). So please do enlighten us on why you glare, stare, and insist on telling us we’re so ‘huge’ or ‘tiny’. We’re not dolls for goodness sake.

Individuals who comment on other people’s size, pregnant or not, are no better than the keyboard warriors who frequent the Daily Mail, and are potentially even worse since they seek to weakly disguise their mal-intent behind their otherwise whiter than white, and social etiquette-abiding demeanour. So if you’re one of these delightful individuals, I’d like to say that I’m sorry I’m tall, and that I’m not showing as much as I potentially would if I was shorter. I’m also sorry that another lady is ‘so big’. But you should also be sorry. Sorry for shaming her, shaming me, and for making us feel terrible about ourselves during a particularly vulnerable, and often terrifying time in a woman’s life. Shame on you.

I’d like to end by thanking my brother, who (I like to think) in an act of sibling solidarity, or because he remembers that unpregnant Georgia doesn’t waddle, comments ‘you’re so pregnant’, each time he sees me. I like his intonation, and the surprised tone he adopts each time he repeats this phrase. But I especially like the fact he doesn’t use the words ‘tiny’ or ‘big’. After all, I am so (in a strictly biological categorisation sense) pregnant.

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N.B. In the vein of substance over form, and so my words rather than image are the focus of this post, I have resisted including photos of my ‘tiny’ 33 week-old bump.