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!

30 WEEKS PREGNANT: UPDATE

Disclaimer: The week was too action-packed, and stressful (in less than equal proportions) for me to provide an accompanying photographic narrative. I hope it still counts.

At 31 weeks + 2 days pregnant, it is the perfect time for me to reflect on week 30, especially when I consider the last 24hrs of agonising leg cramps/pain/whatever one can class these horrors as, which allow me to look back on the preceding week with rose-tinted glasses.

At the dawn of the third week of the third trimester, both the baby and I began to grow exponentially. As if to confirm my ever-expanding form, the other morning when Rich and I were racing (why am I seemingly incapable of building pregnancy slack into my original routine?! N.B. letting myself go has somewhat mitigated this issue) out of the door to our first antenatal class, my coat popper burst free in the midst of the battle between my swollen calves and unsuitably knee high boots. Fortunately, my fantastically supportive husband, provides me with the confidence boosts I need during such challenging times. Take our walk to the antenatal class for an example of such wife-affirmation.

Me (grabbing my hamster cheeks, and unable to work out if I’m pleased or not…): “Look at my face. I have zero wrinkles thanks to how plump it is”.

Rich: “Yes but you’ve always had a cute button face”.

Me (because we all know a button is generally round…a perfect circle really): “You mean chubby”.

Rich: Laughs in my (button?) face.

It’s okay though, because when we arrived at the session and were asked on our best and least favourite part of pregnancy, Rich said “doing all of the washing-up all of the time”. So whilst I’m still struggling to pull my rotund self out from under the red London bus I was thrown beneath, I’m left wondering whether that’s Rich’s best or least favourite part? In his defence (or arguably anyone that doesn’t scour the literature for endless pregnancy tidbits), he may have been overwhelmed by concepts like ‘episiotomy’ which were being liberally thrown around by us bellies. Also, credit where credit is due. Rich does do all the washing up all of the time, and he appreciates my agency sufficiently so as not to make the mistake of proclaiming that ‘natural’ (meaning in this context without epidural…) is definitely the best way to have a baby whilst staring pointedly at his wife, like one of the other (insert: brave/foolish/insane) husbands*.

Nonetheless, if you still need convincing of a husband’s ability to make everything better, take mine and Rich’s Monday night exchange for the final example. I’d say final straw, but fortunately I’m not a camel (I pee way too often to store more than a thimble of liquid), and (un?)fortunately my back is now too wide to be broken.

What I said (underwear clad with back to Rich): “Look. When I have my back turned to you, you’d think I was just chunky, and not pregnant”.

What I was really saying (underwear clad with back to Rich): “Tell me that if it weren’t for my bump, which is now hidden, I look positively slim, and like my usual self”.

What he said (examining me, and delivering his carefully considered response): “Yes you’re right”.

What she said (since I refuse to be associated with the ogre that suddenly entered my body and declared war against husband): “What do you mean? I’m not chunky am I? You just said I was. That must mean I’m really chunky”.

Needless to say, as quickly as the hormone-fuelled witch entered me, and her embarrassingly unreasonable outburst took place, I simmered down. Because let’s face it, who cares?! So besides emotional outbursts, weight-gain, and the discomfort that comes with my growing baby, I’ve also faced some delightful comments on my apparently still ‘tiny’ bump (more insulting than ever when you consider my apparent weight-gain!). So to the wonderful human who thought it appropriate to inform me I look closer to 5 rather than 7 months pregnant, and to kindly question whether my baby’s growth was okay (“his growth is all on-track though, right?”), I’d like to say “no”.

Last week amidst the flurries of snow, and after half a day of changed strength (albeit not frequency) of foetal movement, Rich and I ended up in the maternity assessment centre with me on a monitor at 1.30am. This was followed by a growth scan which revealed our son not to be growing at the normal rate so as to be the average weight for his age of 2.9lbs. No. The two measurements that were taken provided us with an estimate (let’s remember there’s c.10% margin of error) of him being 3.12lbs and 3.13lbs respectively. So it transpires that my ‘tiny’ bump is safely housing our wonderful baby rhino.

So goodbye, and hello to another week of pregnancy excitement, hormones, wonder, bafflement, and strife. Please let there be no more bump commentary. My hormones will determine whether any metaphorical or actual bird flipping takes place on my part. I claim no responsibility from here on out.

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*Kudos to the midwife, who on his fifth attempt at shaming his wife into going ‘natural’, pointed out to the husband that both a birth with, and without pain relief is considered natural. We’ll have to wait until next week to see if he’s convinced.