Why I am dreading telling people: part 1

I know, it’s only 7 and a bit weeks so I don’t have to worry about breaking the big news just yet. And yet, obviously, I am fretting. Predominantly, I am worried about how to phrase it. Pregnancy seems to surrounded by such noxiously coy euphemisms that even announcing the fact is a potential minefield of clichés. The phrase I hate above all others is “I fell pregnant”, with its archaic connotations of fallen women and the unfortunately image of tripping headlong into parenthood – although I guess that’s exactly what we have done. I also loath ‘knocked up’ because the term will be forever linked with Seth Rogen’s smug, sweaty face in my mind. I hate ‘bun in the oven’ because it’s so twee – a Hallmark greeting card announcement, likewise ‘in the pudding club.’ There are few phrases more sickeningly precious than ‘the patter of tiny feet.’ ‘Eating for two’ just seems like a complacent justification for being a lard arse (no doubt I’ll be rethinking my aversion to that one once I am a lard arse.) I don’t mind ‘up the duff’ because it’s the kind of you can imagine Rita Tushingham saying in some quirky 1960s British comedy movie. That said, I can’t imagine the words actually coming out of my mouth. Probably best to stick to the basic ‘I’m pregnant’.

Then, the next problem is how to refer to the infant-to-be? I don’t even particularly like the word ‘baby’. I’m screwed.