An event

This morning I woke at an ungodly hour to stumble to the toilet for something like the fifth time, when all of a sudden . . . POP.

A snap came off the maternity jumper I was trying to dislodge myself from.

And that is truly the only thing of note to have happened in this pregnancy since I last wrote here. Yes, well I’ll see your disappointment and raise you an agonising bout of acid indigestion.

When you take everything else into consideration (heartburn, pelvic dysfunction, carpel tunnel, insomnia), traumatising my reproductive organs by passing a live human being through them starts to feel like the lesser of many, many evils. Why it took me so long to recognise just how evil this particular proposition is likely to be, I can only guess (denial?).

I decided that in preparation for the big day, I would read birth stories to familiarise myself with the general way in which labour progresses. What I discovered is that these generalities don’t exist and that, actually, there are many, many different potential worlds of fear and pain to experience in the labour room, and even within the hours leading up to hospitalisation.

Bar none (okay, bar one), the consensus seemed to be that this horrific ordeal was really nothing compared to the joy of seeing that smushed up little face for the first time, and that Project Reproduction would be going ahead for a second and possibly even third trial just as soon as their mangled lady parts were up to the task.

Though to be honest, it’s a bit difficult to take heart when most of what you’re reading is along the lines of:

I begged my husband to claw out my eyes so that I’d have something else to focus on. In retrospect, I now wish that I’d asked for the epidural much sooner, and that I’d asked them to put it IN MY BRAIN. Like, THE WEEK BEFORE.

It was the happiest day of my life.

So a slight sense of panic now accompanies each new twinge or movement in yonder netherparts, and I’m trying my darnedest to tame this wild stallion of terror before I too find myself having to climb up the walls of an unfamiliar room wearing nothing but a backless gown and a grimace.

Last night, as I was falling asleep to the dulcet tones of a tech-head from Holland who was giving Bruce a video tutorial on how to turn our EEE PC into a touch-screen, radioactive, six-piece dinette set that can save lives and makes toast, I started to feel these wild undulations from the tip of my womb to the base of my pelvic bone and vaguely thought, I think it might be happening.

But it hasn’t, and now I’ve nearly eaten all the snacks out of my labour bag, which has been packed and ready by the front door for the last few weeks, though I'm starting to doubt its relevance. Tick tock, little one.