There comes a point in pregnancy where you are completely sure that every twinge and ache is it, and if it isn’t, it damn well should be, because get the hell out and give me my body back, already! Having been down this road (twice) before, I like to think I’ve got a handle on things and know what I’m in for, but the truth is I am awash in ignorance. First of all, I have no clue what labour feels like. I’ve never been in it, and (fingers crossed/knock on wood/cut the head off a chicken), never will. This is also the first time I will be giving birth in a country other than the one of my birth, so I’m fairly clueless as to what is going to go on in the hospital, even though this is my 3rd elective cesarean.
One thing I do know, and am totally prepared for, is the speed with which I will go from V.I.P. (Very Important Preggo) to very large baby carrier/milk machine in the eyes and actions of family, and friends. When you’re pregnant, everyone is very happy to give you the extra helping at dinner and rub your swollen feet or run out to the shop to get those peanut butter cups you just have to have. I mean, you’re growing a LIFE in there, it would be cruel not to! But the second that baby is evicted from your womb, nobody has shit one to give about your comfort or cravings. You signed up for this! You wanted days filled with leaky boobs and smelly diapers, and nights filled with screaming, crying and a distinct lack of sleep! Don’t expect pity now, chump.
All anybody really wants is to get their dirty, clammy, germ-ridden hands all over your precious little bundle. They want to coo all over her face and mess up her perfect newborn smell with their garlic breath. They want to fuss over her and hog all those cute gassy smiles… Right up until she poops, and then she’ll be your problem again. It’s impossible to be angry about things like that, though, because newborns give off this magical happy/sleepy dust that is absolutely impossible to resist. You pretty much just smile and lazily nod at visitors in a manner not completely unlike being stoned out of your everloving mind while waiting patiently for them to give you back your baby and go the hell away so that you can slip back into that weird, hormonal baby bliss.
So, with only five days left until my V.I.P. card gets revoked, I am going to milk the hell out of this pregnancy deal. Chocolate, ice cream, take aways, foot rubs… I’m going to whine and beg for the entire lot. No shame here, baby! Hate the game, not the playa.