Pregnancy infirmity

I am subsiding towards the birth.

Why is it that when you are preparing yourself mentally for something and trying to reassure yourself, there is always something that does just the opposite in the papers? For instance, take the other day. I settled down after a long day of doing inductions, going into London on the tube [not a pleasant experience at 8 months pregnant and I’m so glad I don’t have to do it daily this time round] and a long walk uphill, to read the paper only to open it at page three and find a huge article with a headline saying something along the lines of mothers more likely to die in childbirth in the UK than in Albania. I read the first few paragraphs. You guessed it. The reason was partly due to the increase in "older mothers" [although it is, I am assured, very rare]. I am a very old mother. I feel older by the second. I think I can safely say I am subsiding towards the birth.

We went to the cinema yesterday evening to see Nanny McPhee and I got stuck in the chair. I also had an embarrassing outpouring of emotion when the dad returned at the end. Almost as bad as my grief at the end of High School Musical 3 at the mere thought that Sharpay et al’s best years were now behind them. Luckily, the day before on the tube I got a seat. I had entered during the rush hour at Oxford Circus. By the end of one stop standing up I was contemplating getting off and lying down for an hour or so, but miraculously someone got up and I got a seat. This has never happened in past pregnancies. Everyone in a seat just buries their heads in books and newspapers. I have indeed had to evacuate the tube or sink to the ground with people eyeing me suspiciously, probably thinking I was on drugs. I have to say I am not one of those people who enjoys pregnancy. I can’t wait to be able to move with ease, walk instead of hobbling and get out of bed in the night without it taking around 10 minutes to drag myself up by the bedroom door handle. Plus I am getting horrible leg cramps. Last night I couldn’t get rid of them so I decided best not to waste a moment and went downstairs to get ahead with work. You could call it the ultimate in flexible working.

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Comments [1]

  • Anonymous says:

    I well remember commuting when I was eight months pregnant. The only people who ever gave me a seat were pensioners (usually female). All the fit young blokes and women were too enthralled in their newspapers – funny how they managed to look up, leap up and get their right stop though!

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