The sweaty, heart-burny, leg-crampy joys of impending doom, I mean motherhood, that no-one ever warns you about UNTIL IT’S TOO DICKING-WELL LATE.
Ok. I’m exaggerating a little. And clearly it’s all worth it in the end and a necessary process to go through so that you can spend the next decade or so doting on a child whose genetically programmed to mix Play Doh colours despite your VERY STRONG ADVICE WITH TWITCHING and will probably make a Snap-Chat story about how much they hate you by the time they’re thirteen, but yeah… umm… TOTALLY WORTH IT AND A JOY.
Third time around pregnancy is a even less glamorous I’m finding out, so here, is my guide to third pregnancies and the SHIT YOU REALLY NEED TO KNOW:
ANNOUNCING YOUR PREGNANCY:
First Pregnancy: You research and create, over a series of weeks, a carefully constructed photo announcement on social media involving tiny shoes and some nausea-inducing message spelled out using miniature croissants you copied from Pinterest . Everyone probably thinks your a dick, but you don’t care because you are having a baby and it’s the most wonderful, amazing, momentous event in your life to date and probably ever AND YOU NEED EVERYONE TO KNOW THIS.
Second Pregnancy: A few well timed social media announcements which get irritatingly low amount of likes and comments compared with your first pregnancy announcement. You deduce that this is the lack of croissants used. Obviously.
Third Pregnancy: Someone spots a picture you looking a bit fat on facebook and asks if you’re pregnant. You confirm in the comments. Whilst eating a sharer size bag of Frazzles using only your mouth. You feel like you’re winning.
First Pregnancy: “OH MY GOD THIS IS AMAZING WE ARE SO HAPPY FOR YOU AND WE ARE TOTALLY JEALOUS OF YOUR AMAZING USE OF TINY BAKED GOODS IN ANNOUNCING YOUR FULLY FUNCTIONING SPERM INSEMINATION.”
Second Pregnancy: “Ah. That’s nice. You’ve completed your family now. Well done you guys.”
Third Pregnancy: “So… was it, like, an accident?”
PREPARING FOR BABY:
First Pregnancy: You’ve bought every gadget, gizmo, and baby-related product AVAILABLE TO MAN and have become aware that your husband may not actually be able to fit in bed/your home with you and the baby now. You should have taken out shares in JohnLewis, Amazon and Mothercare because you’ll be defaulting on mortgage this month just so that you can get a Ewan the Dream Sheep and Perfect Prep machine on all floors of your house whilst tweeting about it.
Second Pregnancy: Ok. You may have gone a bit over board last time so you’re re-using most of it, and the rest you’ve bought second hand off a facebook selling site from someone called ‘Shazza’ or ‘Loz’ who keeps calling you ‘hun’.
Third Pregnancy: You might wash the Bumbo. Especially as you’ve been using it to store tools and/or stock-cubes in for the last three years. #thatsit
SOCIALISING DURING PREGNANCY:
First Pregnancy: Life doesn’t have to change just because I can’t drink alcohol, and we’re having a baby! I’ll still be out all the time! Even if I go home early, at least I can say I was there!
Second Pregnancy: I’m not sure I can face any more of life now that I can’t drink alcohol and we’re having another baby. *add crying for effect*
Third Pregnancy: *Some crying* (although you’re welcome to come over, bring food, make your own drinks, whilst making me some, and if you could clean up after my kids that would be awesome because I literally cannot be arsed now, and I’m fairly sure my carpet is at last 30% crisps, raisins and bodily fluids.) (Some of them are probably mine to be fair. Try not to sniff anything.)
KEEPING HEALTHY AND ACTIVE:
First Pregnancy: Yoga on a Monday, Stretching and Breathing Class on a Wednesday and Pilates to a YouTube vid whilst I sip on stewed nettles, and eat Kale that been massaged by Yaks for dinner over the weekend. Lovely.
Second Pregnancy: Well, I might manage a few YouTube vids but after running around all day after a toddler I’m pretty finished…
Third Pregnancy: It’s been five years since I had a lie-in, and I’ve just fished out a LOL-Doll embedded in a toddler turd from the Duplo Box, so you’ll excuse me if I clear a space in the Wotsit-dust on the sofa and order myself a fucking chicken madras and garlic naan. Happy Fucking Friday.
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