Antenatal anxiety

I think I have been pretty fortunate so far. My pregnancy has been relatively stress-free, particularly since I stopped reading any books by Gina Ford – or indeed any books at all (They’re so badly written! They make me irate!). But there are, of course, a few niggling worries you just can’t shake.

You know the kind of thing: Will the baby be healthy and happy? Will I be able to love it as much as I love my husband? Is my unborn child demonically possessed? The usual stuff.

You may scoff but the demonic possession thing was a bit of a concern for a week or so. We arrived in New York, settled into our ridiculously small rented apartment in the Lower East Side and, bright and early the next morning, we went out for a stroll. A few blocks from where we were staying, a massive fire had broken out the previous night. It was a ‘7 alarm’ fire, we learned from the TV news coverage. Which is pretty damn big. We took some photos, thought no more of it. Then, the following week, stranded by the volcanic dust, we moved to a friend’s lovely house in Woodstock in upstate NY. Bright and early the next morning, we went out for a stroll. Just down the road, another fire had broken out during the night. What a weird coincidence, we thought.
And then – but what if it isn’t a coincidence? What if my foetus is a firestarter? The rest of our holiday became a little like one of the Final Destination movies. Everywhere I looked, there was the potential for a devastating inferno. A seven-year-old playing with lit tealights? Check. Electric cooker plates which don't light up, even when they reach skin melting temperatures? Check. We became extra vigilant about turning off gas and extinguishing candles for at least a week afterwards. Fortunately no other conflagrations have occurred. Probably just as well – I was dreading having to raise the subject in my next meeting with the midwife.

Battle of the bulge

When I landed in New York last week, I had a slight bump. If I sucked my stomach in and attempted to tense my muscles, I could pass for un-preg. But Ingeborg has truly taken to American food – in a big way. Not only do I now look unmistakably knocked up, I can actually feel a little dance of anticipatory excitement in my stomach when I’m about to eat something tasty. The kid was practically turning somersaults when I was waiting in the queue for Katz’s deli in the Lower East Side – it told me to order extra pickles. It elbowed me in the spleen while I was having a facial to remind me to buy a carrot muffin on the way home. It also made me eat half of a knish the size of a small planet, from Yonah Schimmel’s Knish bakery on East Houston St. What worries me is how long we are likely to be stranded here because of the volcanic ash over Europe. I could end up with a gigantic, American-sized baby, with big blubbery jowls and an inbuilt sense of entitlement. I’ll have to put us both on a lentil and raw food diet when we finally get home and just hope the kid doesn’t start punching me in the liver as punishment.

Boobs postscript

S complimented my ever more impressive rack the other day. Well, I’m choosing to take it as a compliment. He said they look like the tits of a really good Brazilian transsexual. Hmmm.

Encounter with an authentic Nu Yoik character.

We wander into a Greenwich village vintage store and almost immediately get caught up in the onslaught of the proprietor’s relentless anecdotes. He’s regaling a disinterested employee about his days in Vegas, rubbing shoulders with gambler extraordinaire Kerry Packer or, as this garrulous dickhead prefers to call him, Carey Packard. His stories go nowhere, at high volume. Inevitably we get sucked in. I try on a skirt – it’s a loose wrap type thing with adjustable ties which looks like it might be forgiving of my imminent pregnancy heft. I make the mistake of mentioning this to Mr Crap Anecdote. He lurches towards me. “Ya know how I know you’re pregnant?” Er because I just told you, genius? “It’s all HERE” he says, pointing vigorously at the bridge of my nose. Apparently, it gets broader in pregnant women. And he should know, he has three daughters, all of whom, I imagine, are overjoyed that he's such an expert on the physiological changes during pregnancy. Interestingly, he didn’t explain how he could tell that the bridge of my nose was broader, having never met me before. But I suppose being a pathological bullshit artist means never having to explain yourself. Then, with a theatrical flourish of the hand that makes him look like some kind of Brooklyn Gandalf, he declares, “It’s a boy!” Great. If he’s wrong, he says, I should call him up and he’ll buy me lunch. We both know that I would be more likely to stuff live cockroaches into my ears than to claim my lunch, so he’s pretty safe in making the offer.

Boobs

And still they grow. It’s starting to get comical. I hauled off my t-shirt last night to get into bed and S broke into a spontaneous round of applause. “It’s like you’ve had a really good boob job!” he said, appreciatively. This from the man who puts plastic surgery somewhere between genocide and child trafficking in his list of the world’s evils. This morning, as I took a shower after an attempt at a run, S came into the bathroom on the pretence of handing me a towel, but really motivated, he admitted, by the urge to take another look at my alien knockers. Enjoy them while you can. I rather imagine the effect will be somewhat spoiled when they have a mewling infant dangling from them for twenty hours a day.

Cheese brain

I read fairly recently that a scientist claims to have disproved the phenomenon of pregnancy related amnesia. 'Egg head negs preg head' should have been the headline, but wasn't, unfortunately. This man - it would have to be a man - claims that there is no proof that pregnant women are more likely to leave their keys in the fridge or the dog in the supermarket than anyone else. The subtext being, 'get it together lardy and stop blaming your foetus for your own stupidity'.

I beg to differ. I realise that my sample group (me before pregnancy vs me during pregnancy)is less than ideal. But i can categorically state that I never forgot the word potato in my pre-pregnant state. Nor did i find myself staring vacantly into cubboards, fridges and the like, vainly trying to remember what it was that I needed. I rarely lost the ability to add up. I, who until recently could list all of Angelina Jolie's ludicrously named offspring, in order of stupidity (the names, not the kids) actually blanked on their mother's name for a good minute. My memory has become a treacherous place, riddled with black holes and quicksand that suck away the words I'm looking for. I have to navigate a precarious, circuitous route in order to get where I need to go. Say, for example, I blanked on the name of an actor, for the sake of argument let's say Robin Williams. I can see his stupid gurning face in my mind vividly, mocking me, but the name eludes me. So I rack my brains to remember his film titles. And draw a blank (the panic is setting in). There was that fuck awful thing where he was a lovable android. And that piece of shit set in the afterlife. And that thing with Matt Damon. Matt Damon! Now I'm getting somewhere. So now I have to check Matt Damon's IMBD listing, until I find the film - Good Will Hunting - then scan down the cast list until I find the name - Robin Bastard Williams.

So forgive me for being blunt, science guy, but prenancy-related cheese brain most definitely does exist. So whay don't you go and stick that up your ...um... whatchamacallit... you know, thingy.

The attack of Twat Dad

So, you know that rush of hormone-based goodwill that is meant to cushion the sharp edges of the world and send pregnant ladies floating around on a cloud of happy thoughts? Seems to have passed me by. So far, my pregnancy has simmered along in my usual default state of low level irritation and occasional blinding rage. But can you blame me, when there are people like Twat Dad bouncing around?

I had to have a meeting with an obstetrician this week. Not actually sure why – she asked me why she was seeing me and I was lost for words. Um, because I’m old? Anyway. As usual, the hospital was running late. Several hours late, for some people. The mums were dealing with it stoically and silently, flicking through magazines and muttering to each other. Then in gambols Twat Dad. He’s the most showily, noisily attentive father I have ever seen. It’s like the world is one giant fucking CBeebies audition. His heavily pregnant wife looks like she would rather rip her own ears off than listen to him for a moment longer – and I can imagine the entire waiting room of mellow pregnant ladies rising up and tearing him limb from limb, rather like the climactic moment in Suddenly Last Summer.

Long-suffering mum is tied up at the reception desk trying to straighten out a mistake with her appointment, meanwhile Twat Dad is working his toddler into a state of shrieking, pant-wetting excitement by hurling him around the waiting room. Next he decided to read the kid a story. At full volume. It’s the book of In The Night Garden, so for the next five minutes we’re treated to a shrieked commentary on the activities of the Ninky Nonk. Even the kid gets a little bored and tries to persuade Twat Dad to read something else. “Not Bob The Builder,” Says Twat Dad, “I think Bob The Builder is a bit of a loser, don’t you?” The kid looks nonplussed. He clearly loves Bob The Builder. I’m tempted to step in at this point and ascertain why, exactly, Bob The Builder is a ‘loser’. Is it because Bob makes his living from manual labour? Come the apocalypse you’ll be wishing little Milo had some practical skills rather than a career in middle management or teaching method acting workshops in West Hampstead or whatever the fuck it is YOU do.

Long-suffering mum has had enough. She whispers a few sharp words to Twat Dad. He huffs a little and says, in an annoying sing song voice loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear, “Out with anger, in with love.” I glance around the waiting room. Come on ladies, who’s with me? Let’s take this fucker out of the gene pool once and for all.