We’ve reached the half way mark. My baby is half cooked, but still very much on the raw side. Since we found out he is a boy he has become less of a fruit and more of a baby to the fella and I, though at this point, we remain utterly stumped about what to call him.
Naming your child brings up all sorts of issues. What if he’s a nerd and has a cool name? What if he’s fat and has a thin person’s name? What if (WHAT IF) he grows up being bullied BECAUSE of his name. Yes, these are the things that keep me awake at night during this time.
Looking back, I totally should have known I was having a boy by what kind of food I was eating. No lady food for me, no NO, it was great big man meals all the way thank you very much. Pie AND mash with extra gravy, in the height of summer… sausages all day please, finished with a giant GIANT apple tart or crumble… or sometimes both, smothered in ice cream and Birds plastic custard. Lots and LOTS of meat for me, the more the better thank you very much. Also, I want to give a shout out to McDonalds, whose chocolate milkshake remains my personal cure-all for nausea and heartburn. I discovered this gem during a paralytic hangover years ago, and it has worked a TREAT during the prego-ness. I know, I KNOW, we’re supposed to feed ourselves full of healthy deliciousness that will nuture our babies, making them grow like healthy stalks when they’re born. Well, at this point, my baby wanted beige food, and that’s what I gave him. What can I say? I am a pushover even before he’s born.
Also, at this juncture I want to address the unwelcome subject of touching pregnant ladies. Don’t do it. Just because we are two, doesn’t give you permission to grab or stroke or COMMENT ON OUR BELLIES. It’s very annoying, and very unwelcome. “You’re so neat! I thought you’d be waaaay bigger” translates to the paranoid pregnant bird as “because you’re such a fat cow I assumed you’d be a monster when you were pregnant”, while cooing “can I touch the bump?”, grabbing before pregnant lady has had a chance to draw breath will do nothing but breed antagonism. Leave it alone – it’s not funny, it’s not clever and it DOESN’T MAKE US FEEL GOOD. So there.
Things that are important to note during the half way point:
1. Your fanny doesn’ t hurt as much. Well, it does, but you don’t need to wee as much, so it’s kind of like it doesn’t hurt that much… you know what I mean.
2. You stop looking hungover all the time and start to look good. And your skin is looking FAB-U-LOUS my friends. Truly.
3. You become obsessed with birth. Maybe it’s just me, but I manically trawled the interweb for birth stories, salivating at the really bad ones and then keeping myself up all night worrying about my own. I also tried to draw anyone I could into my sinister web of birth fear with comments like “I heard of a woman who was in labour for ten days before they eventually gave up the ghost and went for a C section.” Nice.
4. You become aware of different ways of parenting when people start to say to you “So, are you going to do the Gina Ford or the Baby Whisperer?” What the hell? More on this tomorrow.