Questions, questions and more questions

I guess this is the point in my pregnancy that I realise just how little I know.

“When are you meeting your obstetrician?” demanded my mother-in-law. Er, I don’t know. Do I even get an obstetrician? What do they do? Should I know this?
“Will they keep you in for about six days?” Another question from my mother-in-law. I’m fairly sure the answer is no to this. Times have changed since the days when going private was a relatively affordable thing. Now I expect I’ll be kicked out into the street in a matter of minutes with a newborn in one hand and load of psychotically cheerful informative leaflets in the other, to free up the bed.
“Have you thought about your birth plan?” Er no. What’s a birth plan? Apparently its where you decide things like whether you want to suffer unimaginable agony or whether you want pain relief. Well that’s an easy one.

I have questions of my own though – pressing ones. Like, for example, will my tits continue to grow at their current rate? Pretty soon we’re going to need a third bedroom just to accommodate them. I tried on something I always remember as a loose and flowing sundress last night, thinking, well, I can float around Cannes looking like a purple jellyfish wearing this. The seams positively groaned. It looked practically obscene.

Words of comfort last night from L who had his first child with P twelve years ago, when we all knew considerably more about clubbing than childrearing. They took their newborn baby home, sat down and stared at him. Then both simultaneously burst into tears. Fortunately, both their kids are gorgeous and happy, so they did something right.