First bloom

IMG_3516Just a little explanation. Not an apology, because that would assume a) it matters b) I could have done anything differently. I started this blog a year ago and for the last six months I’ve not been very consistent with my posts.  Bla, bla bla, that old chestnut. But for me, it’s because at six and half weeks pregnant with BUB.3 the shutters came down and the air was sucked from my soul. At least that’s how it felt.

Sickness, two-day migraines and a curious lack of appetite combined with a ravenous hunger, that all aside, it was the fatigue I wasn’t expecting, despite experiencing it with my previous two pregnancies. This time it felt more unearthly than the last. Overwhelming tiredness that the first time round consigned me to the sofa with repeats of Come Dine with Me and Location, Location, Location, this time caught me breathless at 4pm, with tea time, bath time and bedtime still all to come. I can do the last two lying down, but attempting the first lying down invariably ended in tears. Or baked beans *everywhere*.

Sad to say, there was barely even time for a sneaky Hotel Inspector.

So many evenings, my writing time, saw me slumped in bed with the BUBs at 7pm, only to fall straight asleep until woken by Willy Wonka flapping a sandwich in my face, which I often ate at least partially lying down. Which does wonders for the ol’ heartburn.

I would then sleep all night, squashed bladder permitting, until 7am. Lots and lots of nights. But every morning I woke up feeling like I’d been out on a night starting with cheap white wine and ending in tequila slammers and a night bus. This “hangover” lasted all day and often spiked late afternoon and again during the night. There was no hair of the dog. No strong painkillers.  Just chocolate. And moaning. And biscuits. And vitamins. I was a shambles. And yes I know how fortunate I am to have the chance to feel this awful. It just felt fortunate and awful.

It even gave me an insight into why old people can sometimes be so grumpy. If your body is continually letting you down and you feel rough all the time, it’s hard to raise a smile. And I’m a smiley, positive person. And so are those old people, probably, inside. And never mind those recent hilarious experiments showing how men might react to the experience of childbirth; I’d like to see how they’d deal with the first trimester. Give me childbirth any day.

It is only now, at 18 weeks pregnant, that I have emerged from that shambolic state into being just an exhausted, boat-sized human being. I can almost form coherent thoughts now. I’m back down to single figures on the daily biscuit intake front. I still struggle to eat much more than toast for lunch and then wonder why I fall flat at 4pm, and I wake up feeling exhausted, and this is what I gather people describe as “blooming”.

You’re not “blooming”, you’re just cracking a smug smile because you don’t have an overwhelming urge to lie down on the tarmac in the supermarket car park or carry a vomit bucket around your neck all day long.

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