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As you may or may not have seen in my niche pregnancy Instagram announcement (involving my favourite indie film Little Miss Sunshine) I have a small human boy spawning in my guts! Obviously I wanted to go full out Beyoncé for the shoot but I don’t quite have her flower budget, underwater tolerance or ethereal flowing mane. So I had my drag queen pal whip me up a lewk with some of Spotlight’s finest lycra, then got my eldest child to take the photo in the glamorous location of my tiny ensuite bathroom, and TA-DA! My version of pregnant realness.

The good news is, my body is ready. Like a pair of comfortable pants that are saggy in the right places my body has collapsed back into pregnant mode with little to no coercing. All the stretch marks are pre-stretched and primed to take their rightful place back on top of my skin, in what can only be described as ‘an intricate and detailed roadmap of an elephant’s ear’. I’m also having the exact same cravings I had when I was pregnant 18 years ago. It’s like my womb is made of memory foam. The second it’s got a baby in it, BOOM. I’m knocking back entire mugs of hot chicken stock. Yep, that’s right. Straight up, fluorescent yellow chicken stock. I tell you what, it was hard to hide that one at work – I had to pretend I was drinking some kind of Chinese medicinal herbal tea. I’m also averaging four potatoes a week, minimum. Okay, fine. Four potatoes a day. An hour. Side note: EXCUSE ME SPUD BAR, why are you not open at 8am for pregnant women? I’m a busy working mum. I need me a morning spud, OKAY?! I’m now forced to drive to a Westfield food court like some kind of criminal (because who else shops at 9:15am guys?) sit in an oversized chair with my bacon spud balancing precariously on my lap and attempt to hide my face (which is covered in sour cream and tiny pieces of bacon).

Speaking of mornings, my morning sickness has been ba-nay-nay. ‘Morning’ sickness. Pfftt. Every-waking-second sickness. I’m always nauseous, yet always hungry. What even is that?! I’m craving hamburgers as I’m vomiting up breakfast. I want a bucket in one hand, and a meatball sub in the other. At any given moment, I’ve indigestion, stomach acid burn, nausea, extreme hunger, and chronic constipation. I’m like a human volcano (except constipated… and also constantly stuffing my volcano mouth with food… okay, this analogy has really fallen apart, you guys). But no one would dare to question the amount of food I’m currently ingesting, because if anyone should look at my 7am serving of porridge, muffins, meatballs and chicken stock, I am ready to stab them with my fork while screaming “IT’S FOR THE BABY. IT’S FOR THE BABYYYYYYY”

I’ve already put on eight kilos. At one of my appointments last week (ahhhhh, the appointments. I’d forgotten the joy of having an appointment with a different medical professional every 45 minutes) I was told I needed to be weighed. Um, that’s a hard no from me, Janet. I looked her in the eye and said ‘here’s an idea. How about we skip it?’. I was willing to offer her a bribe. I was willing to give her the damn baby. She said ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to look’, to which I replied  ‘Yes, but you will know, and every time I see you, I will see the judgement in your eyes, Janet.’

On a more serious note, last night was the first night I’ve slept well since I found out I was pregnant. It was the first night I’ve breathed properly. I’ve been terrified to have any hope in this pregnancy in case I had another miscarriage – I have been so careful not to jinx it. I couldn’t bring myself to buy any maternity clothes (I’ve been doing my jeans up with a rubber band because I’m classy like that). I’ve not walked into any baby shops, I’ve held my breath when walking down the nappy aisle at IGA, and I’ve been terrified of going to sleep, in case I woke up in the middle of the night with blood on the sheets. So to the women who have gone back two, three, ten times, who have survived miscarriage after miscarriage, who have lived through this suspended state of terrifying tension more than once; you are absolute warriors. I take my hat off to you, particular to those who have written to me and told me about their experiences of multiple miscarriages and failed rounds of IVF. I am in awe of you. Your strength brings me to my knees, and I wish I could hug every one of you. 

Until last night, I hadn’t let myself think of baby names, just in case. But last night, when my wonderful OB called me (on a Sunday, because he knew exactly how stressed I was about the test results, and wanted to tell me as soon as he could) we finally sat down as a family and talked about the baby that is on it’s way. We talked properly, without knocking on wood, without not getting our hopes up. My husband and daughters even starting tossing around baby names, thinking that they actually have a say in what I name the baby. Hahahahaha. Ha. Cute. No.

We talked about him (that’s right, it’s a BOY! My eldest daughter joked that he’ll have to ‘come out’ to me as being straight, should that be his sexual preference). I honestly don’t care if he wants to put his wang in pumpkins, as long as he is happy and healthy. I mean obviously we’ll have a chat about the pumpkin thing but you know, nothing too heavy.  And for the first time, I’m letting myself get excited. I can’t wait to meet him, and place an unrealistic amount of expectations on him. I can’t wait to take him to musicals, and get pedicures together. I can’t wait to watch him play with his sisters, dominate in his chosen sport, foster his love of learning and cultivate his inevitable Disney obsession. 

I can’t wait to screw him up in my own way, like all parents get to do.

I can’t wait. I’m pregnant, bitches. Thanks for all your love and messages, and for being so excited with me. Let’s do this.

Now excuse me while I go vomit into a burrito.