OLIVIA SIEGL is the proud owner of two tiny humans and creator of popular parenting blog, The Baby Bible; a funny, honest and straight talking blog covering everything from post-baby vaginas to Postnatal Depression, uniting mums worldwide to be able to talk about ALL areas of motherhood – NO judgement!

After suffering with severe Postnatal Depression and Postpartum Psychosis following the birth of her two daughters, Olivia set up The Every Mum Movement, a global movement that empowers mums to take care of their maternal mental health and speak more openly and honestly about motherhood. The movement has gone from strength to strength, gaining support from the NHS HEE, NCT, Netmums and high profile celebrity parents, as well as invitations to speak at the Department of Health and the Houses of Parliament. Olivia also speaks at events and in the media on her experiences of maternal mental health to help raise awareness.

She loves writing and is a regular contributor to The Huffington Post, The Metro and leading parenting sites.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Olivia Siegl 2018

Olivia Siegl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780008214869

For my amazing little girls, Éva Loren and Isla-Mai, and my

awesome husband, Jamie, for always believing I could do this. And

to every Mum who has ever doubted themselves – this is for you

Me, Jamie and our awesome tiny humans

KEEP IN TOUCH

One of the best parts about writing my blog has been hearing from

other mums and sharing our tales of motherhood. I would love to

hear from you.

Share and tag your photos of BONKERS: A Real Mum’s HilariouslyHonest Tales of Motherhood, Mayhem & Mental Health using the #BONKERS hashtag

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CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction A Quick HELLO (as I know you’re busy keeping your tiny human alive)

Foreword A Tiny Word from my Tiny Humans

Chapter 1 Bulls***

Chapter 2 It’s Time to Go Back… Waaay Back

Chapter 3 Pregnant and Blooming – (aka Blooming Demonic, Starving and Willing to Kill for a Cheese Burger and a Full-Fat Coke)

Chapter 4 Childbirth, aka Trying to Push a Tiny Human Out of your Vagina

Chapter 5 Becoming Mum – The Early Days

Chapter 6 The Every Mum Guide to Postnatal Depression

Chapter 7 Popping your Motherhood Cherry

Chapter 8 After the After (Birth) Party – Celebrating Our Post-Baby Vaginas

Chapter 9 Going from One to Two

Chapter 10 In Charge of Two Tiny Humans

Chapter 11 Postpartum Psychosis – The Danger of the Unknown

Chapter 12 Feeding Your Tiny Human

Chapter 13 The Every Mum Guide to Weaning

Chapter 14 Snapping Back into You, Post-Baby

Chapter 15 Post-Baby Body

Chapter 16 The Every Mum Guide to Being a Dad

Chapter 17 What Does Motherhood Mean to Me?

Endnote Au Revoir For Now

Acknowledgements

Useful resources

Glossary

INTRODUCTION

A QUICK HELLO (AS I KNOW YOU’RE BUSY KEEPING YOUR TINY HUMAN ALIVE)

Dear Every Mum,

No matter how you give birth; no matter how you feed your tiny human; no matter if you are a co-sleeper, a breast-feeder, a baby sling wearer, a baby-led weaner, a home-grown organic mum, a home-opened fish finger mum, a gentle parenting mum, a ‘Get your shoes on RIGHT NOW before I turn into the Hulk’ mum, a stay-at-home mum, a back-to-work mum, an ‘I’m not getting dressed today’ mum, a mum struggling with her mental health, a mum feeling judged, or a mum feeling on top of the world …

NO. MATTER. WHAT. You, my gorgeous and magnificent new friend, deserve the right to enjoy motherhood.

FOREWORD

A TINY WORD FROM MY TINY HUMANS

A little like trying to get through a HOT drink of anything nowadays, I similarly, couldn’t get through the intro of this book, without my tiny humans sharing their thoughts on it all. Over to you girls …

MUMMY’S STARTING A REVOLUTION

Our mummy doesn’t like it when people say unkind things about other mums. She says this is being judgmental and that no mummy deserves that.

Our mummy thinks it’s very important to tell the truth, no matter how hard it may be. She believes that not telling fibs about what being a mummy is really like will make other mummies feel better about themselves and not like they are the only one going through it.

Mummy is not scared about telling the truth.

She was once, though. When she first became a mum, our mummy thought she wasn’t doing a good enough job, that everyone else was doing better at it than her, but she was too scared to talk about it. She felt alone and not very brave. She was scared to tell the truth that sometimes being a mummy is hard and that it sometimes made her think unkind things about herself.

Our mummy soon learnt that telling the truth about her experiences of being a mummy, even the more difficult parts about her mind getting poorly, helped other mummies share their experiences. And that made her and other mummies feel less alone and more brave.

Our mummy really cares about this book and the people who read it. She doesn’t want to sound corny or like something she calls a ‘prom queen’, but she really wants to make a difference with what she has written and help bring together other mummies who also believe in being kind to other mums.

Our mummy wants to create a big group of these mums all showing support rather than judgement to each other, even if these mums do things differently.

So Mummy has made a decision.

Mummy’s starting a revolution.

The Every Mum Revolution, supporting EVERY mum – NO judgement!

She would love you to join her.

Love Éva-Loren & Isla-Mai

CHAPTER 1

BULLS***

OK, so have I got your attention?

I hope so, because I have a feeling in my knackered, mummy bones (without being too presumptuous, as we have only just met) that we are going to be great friends. You know the kind. The kind who, after just five minutes and five swigs of fizzy wine, are sharing life stories, birth trauma, sex-gone-wrong tales and the fact our bikini lines are less Brazilian, more Gorillas in the Mist since pushing a tiny human out. Yes, THAT type of friendship; the type we all dream about and seldom have the pleasure or fortune to have in our new mum-shaped lives.

You and me, I want us to be that type of friend – and like any good, no, GREAT friendship, we need to agree that the things we share between these pages (and what happened between our legs) is, of course, just between us.

Deal?

Can I take it from you silently nodding your head that means you are in?

BRILLIANT!

So, now you’ve managed to stash your tiny human somewhere to get a few minutes peace to read this book, let me introduce myself properly.

My name is Liv. I am the often bedraggled, occasionally ferocious protector of two tiny humans. I am also a writer. The writer bit came second as, before motherhood, I was a closet writer. Which meant, I didn’t have the literary balls to show my work to anyone. However, once I’d shown my vagina to a bunch of strangers (thanks to the beauty of childbirth, not me being a porn star), showing something I’d written to the world was no longer as terrifying as my brain first had me believe (who’d a thunk it?!). Motherhood, for this (and for other unforgettable gifts such as permanent piles, sleepless nights, an uncontrollable bladder, oh, and my two beautiful tiny humans) I thank you.

So, what else can I tell you?

Oh yes, I’m knackered and a little bit mental. Officially, I am the first (knackered) all of the time and have been the second (mental) some of the time. Just to clarify, when I say ‘mental’ I don’t mean the cool London-meets-LA speak ‘mental’. You know the ‘Yeah, my life is SO fooking MENTAL since having kids, I’m like, SO CRAZY’. No. I actually mean, full on, officially diagnosed by a doctor, mental. All thanks to a visit from those two petrifying and incredibly nasty friends, postnatal depression and postpartum psychosis. But more of this delightfully messed-up tale later. (If you are a lover of horror stories and can’t bear the suspense, then feel free to skip the next bit and dive straight into the darkness on page 95).

So, what can I tell you about me on the mum front?

Well for one, I insanely bloody LOVE my tiny humans (two beautiful little girls bursting with character, kindness, snot and glorious sloppy kisses in equal measure) with an unashamed, unbashful and unrelenting ferociousness like no other I’ve known. It is fair to say that I would singlehandedly slay any fool who gets in my way of loving, providing and protecting them. (I know I sound scary; in real life I actually hate confrontation – honest.) Now, don’t get me wrong: like any other good mum out there, I’m not too proud – no, scrap that, I AM proud enough to admit that they also drive me bat-shit-like-a-box-of-frogs-on-speed BONKERS. I love the chaos (most days). I love and hate equally the edges of despair and the precipices of near disasters that I’m teetering on the edge of on an hourly basis thanks to motherhood. And whether or not I have my head together to deal with these days, usually depends on the amount of sleep I haven’t had, the number of cataclysmic tantrums I’ve diffused pre 8 a.m., and if I’ve ran out of my dry shampoo (which, I’ve come to realise, is my only real ally when the Don’t kid yourself that you can leave the house looking like that crap hits the fan).

Now, I know that you’re also busy keeping your part of the human race alive (great job, by the way). So, before we get to crack open the fizzy wine and dive into my knackered mummy soul and the rest of this book, I need to first let you in on a little something. After all, any woman worth her salt knows that the only way to cement a great friendship is with a dirty great confession (or two).

So, here goes:

I haven’t got a clue what I am doing.

Not one.

SERIOUSLY.

Yes, I am a mother of two tiny humans. And yes, most days I am scared out of my tiny mind that I am making the mother of all messups and that I will ruin their lives forever. And, if I’m really honest, I do not have a scooby doo how I veer from one day to the next, with both my tiny humans still happy (ish), still healthy (ish) and still alive (def more than ish).

Fact.

Wow, it feels better to get that off my chest – thanks!

Since becoming a mum, I’ve found that telling the truth, no matter how ugly, disgusting or ridiculous a light it paints you in, makes you feel better. And it makes every other mum feel so much better too. Which got me asking: Why on earth do we all seem so hell bent on hiding this truth when it comes to our own experiences of motherhood?

This leads me nicely to my next confession (I’m on a roll here and I’ve got a feeling due to the fact you are still with me and haven’t put me down to go buy a Kit-Kat or put a wash on that our Every Mum friendship is well on its way to being cemented good and proper). If not the next bit should do the trick…

So here goes, confession No 2:

I don’t always enjoy motherhood.

I know. SHOCK HORROR! Right?

I can hear the perfect parenting vigilantes running down the road shouting ‘Burn the witch!’ right now.

However, isn’t this what we all need to hear? Doesn’t every mum need to hear the honest truth that motherhood, like everything we turn our hand to in life and similar to everything we experience (even the most magical) isn’t always enjoyable all of the time? And that it is totally OK to feel this way. In fact, totally normal and it doesn’t mean you’re a witch or a terrible mum.

Yes. I know. Big, HUGE confession to make so early in our friendship. Bear with me and I’ll tell all.

You see, pre-motherhood I had this image of the mum I was going to be and the sort of motherhood I was going to have. It was the type of motherhood I’d read about in all the magazines and on all the blogs and had seen in films. In my Perfect Mummy mind’s eye, I was happy, confident and in total control of this ship called Mother. Breezing through my new mum life, creating a perfect home, running a successful new baby business (because that’s what all new mums do right?), clad in white linen with a smiley and easy-going baby attached effortlessly to my hip and me enjoying every second of it.

But then, something happened. I pushed a tiny human out of my vagina, and ever since I’ve noticed a distinct smell of something quite different in the air.

Do you smell it too?

Since becoming a mum do you also feel surrounded by a distinct smell of shit? I do. And, the smell, my lovely new friend, is not coming from my tiny human’s nappy or the Poo Pants of Shame I stuffed in my nappy bag three weeks postpartum after accidentally pooing myself in the middle of Mothercare. (Cheers, Mother Nature, for the heads-up that childbirth runs amok with more than just your bladder).

Oh no, that smell burning in my nostrils following the birth of my first tiny human, was the distinct smell of judgmental bullshit being flung at me and other mums from every direction and sucking the joy out of my experience of motherhood. From how I was handling my pregnancy to how I gave birth. Was I bottle-feeding or breast-feeding? Was I a baby wearer? A co-sleeper? A gentle parent? A dummy lover? A baby-lead weaner? To just when exactly was my tiny human planning to crawl, walk, talk, start applying for MENSA!

And you know what? It made me sad. It made me angry. It made me want to do something!

This book in your hands is me Doing Something.

It is me making a stand for every mum out there and saying enough, is enough. Stop with all the perfect parenting propaganda. Stop with all the pressure to be the perfect mum. Stop with all the judgement thrown at mums trying to make the best decisions for themselves and their families. Just please STOP with all the perfect parenting nonsense. Please!

Instead, this book is about bathing in the beauty of own our truth. It is about us being brave. It is about owning our own crazy, beautiful, challenging, dirty, hilarious, disgusting and honest mum reality. It is us telling the world that we are mums who sometimes get it right. We are mums who sometimes make mistakes. We are mums who sometimes have our life together. We are mums who sometimes want to run away from our responsibilities like we are running from a burning building. We are mums who sometimes suffer with our mental health. We are mums who sometimes look hot and we are mums who sometimes just look like we have peeled ourselves off the local park bench after being run over by a herd of snot-wielding tiny humans. However, this is us. This is who we are. No smoke and mirrors, no airbrushing.

For every mum out there feeling lost in the wilderness of motherhood. For every mum out there feeling pressure to be the perfect mum. For every mum out there questioning why their life does not look like the parenting described in the media. For every mum suffering with their mental health. For every mum feeling like they are alone. For every mum questioning if they are a good enough mum. For every mum feeling judged. This book is for you!

I want to show every mum that you are good enough. That you are doing a good job. That regardless of whatever is going on with you right this second that you are one hell of a mum and a woman. You are magnificent. Yes, just as you are. No matter how long it’s been since you last washed your hair. No matter how short your temper is because you haven’t had more than two hours of goddam sleep. No matter how imperfect and inadequate you feel when measured up against your pre-baby vision of how life as a mum should be. Just you hold on to this fact: you are already the perfect mum for your glorious, milk-scented, chubby-legged tiny human and regardless of what motherhood throws at you:

You BLOODY ROCK!

Welcome, my friend, to the every mum revolution.

Hold on to your stitches and nappy bags; it’s going to be one hell of a ride!

CHAPTER 2

IT’S TIME TO GO BACK … WAAAY BACK

So, seeing as you are still with me and haven’t been put off by my Poo Pants of Shame confession, I think it’s safe to say we are now buddies, amigos, mates, gal pals and fellow Every Mum allies. Therefore, there’s only one thing for it. It’s time for a Craig David ‘Re-Rewind’ moment to cement some fellow mum history between these sheets and find out how this mum came to think she was capable of taking care of a tiny human, let alone writing a book about it.

SHE’LL BE COMING ROUND THE MOUNTAIN WHEN SHE COMES

Being pregnant, living up a mountain in a foreign country miles away from my family and the things I cared about most in this world (namely my mum and Boots the Chemist) was not something I ever imagined when I used to flirt with the rose-tinted idea of becoming a mum in my mid-twenties.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t as treacherous or as exotic as it may first appear. The mountain was in France, not the Himalayas. It’s not as though we were living in a mountainside shack, miles away from civilisation – even though sometimes, when everything in the village shut down between the hours of 12 noon and 2 p.m. and I couldn’t go to the supermarket twenty-four hours a day it could feel like it. (Wow! Talk about First World problems!) No, it was France and the Alps – a ski resort called Morzine, to be exact. It was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived and had fresh running water and an amazing health care system (albeit a ride down the mountain – the hospital not the running water).

So how the hell did I end up here I can hear you asking?

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we, and meet the pre-baby me. Let’s take a good, long look at her so we can see how far the free as a bird mighty have fallen. Hang on a second, I think I can hear her shiny Geneva heels clicking down the shiny Geneva pavement now, clicking and swooshing her way to a swanky client meeting in a swanky Swiss building. (I know, I almost can’t believe this me actually existed either!)

So, I know what you’re thinking, how the hell did the now disheveled and slightly unhinged me find herself once upon a time clicking down a shiny Swiss high street in shiny Swiss heels?

Well, it went a little something like this. My hubby, Jamie, had lived in France since a teenager and after I went on a ski holiday in his French hometown of Morzine, we were properly Cilla Blacked and hooked up by mutual friends. We were smitten from the word go – or should I say smitten from the first of many drunken snogs as we tried (and failed) to ski home from an end-of-season party on the slopes. The holiday and the snogging ended and I returned back to my life and career in marketing back in the UK. (Yes, I once was a functioning member of society who had a pretty successful career under her belt.) However, six months of long-distance dating later, I’d packed up my career, said goodbye to my City Girl bachelorette pad, hung up my heels and moved to the mountains to be with the boy of my dreams. Bang! No messing! In for a penny, in for a pound – or, as it transpired, a wedding and two tiny humans!

Our life together in France was pretty damn sweet. It was one of doing whatever the hell we wanted, snowboarding, skiing, hanging out with friends, boozy picnics by the lake, and road trips to Italy for lunch that turned into a weekend away. We were carving out a life together that was universes away from my daily commute, 9–5 city life back in the UK. (I could poke my old self bang in the eye right about now: I had NO bloody clue how good I’d got it!)

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a city girl at heart; I love the dirt, the noise and the bristling energy on which a city thrives. However, this new life in the Alpine mountains, was one of adventure, great food, freedom and possibility, all shared with the love of my life. The downside was that I really missed my family. We are a really close bunch – like EastEnders close – which drives me bonkers at times when it becomes more dramatic than an EastEnders storyline – but I wouldn’t be without them. And as they were only a short plane ride away; I went back regularly and they came out to see us when they could.

After a year and a half together (living together and working together on his online ski holiday business), Jamie dragged me out on a snowy walk, bent down on one knee in waist-deep snow and proposed to me in front of our favourite waterfall. (Yes, this place I now found myself living in was so ridiculous we actually had enough choice of waterfalls to class one as our favourite!) A year later, we were married in a beautiful château in front of all our most favourite people, followed by the mother of all parties that rocked le château well into the early hours.

Following the wedding and honeymoon, I landed myself a marketing job in Geneva, earning more money than I’d ever earned or could earn back in the UK. I somehow managed to convince my employer that I should only work four days a week (and one of those from home), and, not surprisingly, we were loving life thanks to the much-coveted disposable income. If it helps, I now want to run back in time and throttle my old self for thinking this type of life and financial freedom would go on forever, even after having babies – pah, fool! So there we were, happily married, with good jobs and living in a beautiful place. It was inevitable that sooner or later talk of tiny humans started to pop up.

GETTING PREGNANT

We’d been really open about both wanting a family from pretty early on, and knew that once we were married we’d want a family of our own. However, it was my hubby who was the first one to suggest that we actively stopped not trying for a baby. I still remember where we were when he first said that he thought it was time: a karaoke bar. We were on a six-week trip to Vietnam – our postponed honeymoon that I’d also managed to wangle before starting my new job (seriously, I love Geneva) – drinking way too many two-for-one mojitos and about to be taken to a club by a member of the Vietnam mafia and his security guards. Yes, I said mafia! #bloodyidiots (us, not the mafia).

I turned to him like he was a loon, looking at where we were right then and trying to imagine our life with a baby in it, and told him I wasn’t sure. (No shit Sherlock! You were about to go clubbing with the mafia. How the hell was a tiny human going to fit into those plans?) Life-changing conversation over, we then proceeded to do the final shot, sing one last rendition of Jessie J’s ‘Price Tag’ (It’s all about the money money money) and went clubbing with our well-connected new friends.

However, after he had planted the reality of a baby in my mind (and the mother of all hangovers had worn off), it grew from a ridiculous idea to an exciting butterfly in my tummy that developed into something we both wanted – and we started not not trying for the rest of the trip. I found myself googling ‘ovulation calculators’ from our dodgy hotel in Ho Chi Min City whilst planning our next stopover, and daydreaming of going home pregnant and ready, after six weeks of adventures, to start the next chapter of our lives (because life is always that textbook, right?).

The idea of being a mum – of going from the two of us to the three of us – went from being a drunken conversation to something I couldn’t stop thinking about.

With a mix of naivety and a sprinkle of pre-baby arrogance, I believed that deciding to have a baby meant that we would start trying and, bam, we would be pregnant. I blame the crap sex education we received in Year 9. You see, when us girls are growing up, we are full of fear that we only have to see an erect penis and we will be with child. That unprotected sex leads us on a one-way street to either STDs or pregnancy (both terrifying destinations aged 16). And we grow up safe in the knowledge that one day when we decide, we will become mothers to deliciously chubby and healthy tiny humans and continue to have as many as we want until we decide to call time on our ovaries once we’ve reached our perfect number of children.

What we are not told is that in fact there is only a small window of opportunity each month to get pregnant. That our biology and cycles have to be aligned to ensure it’s possible for us to get pregnant. That even once we become pregnant the journey our tiny human has to complete to finally end up safe, healthy and in our arms can be so precarious that some don’t make it or if they do are not able to stay with us for long. We don’t realise that our ovaries may have already called time on us, long before we even decided we are ready to become a mum. It’s bloody terrifying to realise that something we are programmed to believe is our natural right as a woman – to grow and bring a tiny human into this world – may not be our right after all. That our bodies, despite being in good physical condition, are not able to produce the one thing we want most in the world.

So back to me and my foolish notion that we would get pregnant purely because we were on our honeymoon and I was off the pill. I missed a period a couple of weeks before coming back from the trip, we got overly excited – only to do a test and taste the first taste of disappointment, a taste with a strength that amazed us. A few weeks earlier, we hadn’t even known we wanted a baby. Now, we’d spoken about it, and it was all we wanted. We ended up shrugging this off and calmly chastising ourselves for thinking it would have happened so quickly, but also being happy that it proved to us without a shadow of a doubt how much we wanted this little person in our lives.

This calm nonchalance was all well and good at the start. However, once the months started to tick by, without a blue line making an appearance, we started to worry. We both told each other it was crazy; it had only been a few months and we knew rationally that it could take up to a year or longer. But we still couldn’t stop the little niggling of fear of ‘What if it isn’t going to happen for us?’ and ‘What if there is something wrong with one of us?’.

I’d heard about ovulation sticks from family and friends, but I didn’t know if this was the right way to go about things or just let things happen naturally. This worry was compounded by a remark someone said to me when we were talking about couples ‘actively trying’ for a baby and using these sticks to help them know the best time to be having sex: ‘Oh, I would hate to do that. To be one of those couples who have to have sex even if they don’t want to, just to have a baby. I’d much rather just go with the flow and see what happens.’

My response to this?

BULLSHIT!

Give yourself a couple of months of ‘just seeing what happens’ and, when nothing does, of feeling the anxiety start to build along with the fear that it may not ‘just happen’ for you, that you may not be lucky enough to have the baby you’ve been dreaming about. Give yourself a couple of months of that and then tell me what you think about increasing your chances of conceiving by knowing the optimum time to get pregnant thanks to weeing on a stick? Anyone who has ever tried for a baby knows that once you get a few failed months under your unfastened chastity belt you will try ANYTHING to get with child – from having sex on the smiley days even when you are feeling more knackered than turned on to trying more ‘effective’ positions and the waiting with yours leg in the air after having sex. Literally ANYTHING. And you know what? So, you should. There is no shame in it, nothing to feel embarrassed or unnatural about trying anything you can to get pregnant, even peeing on a stick.

Therefore, never feel ashamed or embarrassed about whatever route you take to being able to bring your tiny human into this world – and, most importantly, never feel judged on it. Never!

FINDING OUT WE WERE PREGNANT

So, these Bad Boy ovulation sticks worked a treat and after a couple of months of using them along with every other Old Wives’ trick in the book, we were officially in the club. However, thanks to me being crap at calculating my cycle dates – or, if I’m honest, anything mathematical (sorry, Mr Warton, all that GCSE maths tuition never really stuck!) – I didn’t realise I was late until almost a week afterwards! Oh yes, thanks to me miscounting the days on my work calendar, I was nearly a week late, and the smell of coffee (hard to escape when working in an office in Geneva because it runs through the veins of these people) was making me want to throw up during every meeting. In true Swiss fashion, we had a lot of meetings and a lot of coffee.

So, there I was at my desk in Geneva, when it struck me that I might have miscalculated. I started to recount the days and yes, yes, divvy here had made a mistake. My stomach somersaulted (not just because of the reek of coffee) as I dared to let myself believe that I might have a little person already growing inside me. I reached for my phone and called my hubby straightaway.

‘I think I’m five days late.’

He was so excited, and we both couldn’t wait to get home so we could do the test together. So there we were, hours later, at home surrounded by a wide-grinned bubble of nervous energy wanting it so much to be true. Not quite believing it could be and trying to hold onto our heads and our hearts in case the lines did not appear – or, in the case of our French digital Clear Blue test, the word enceinte did not appear.

It was the longest few minutes of our lives. I did the test, saw the timer start and was so scared to keep looking at it that we placed it on the coffee table, out of sight and out of reach, and sat on the sofa together like two bunnies in the headlights, grinning and giggling at each other like loons.

‘Shall we look?’

‘No, it won’t have worked yet.’

‘The timer’s still going.’

‘Stop looking.’

‘OK.’

‘Stop peeking at it, I can see you looking, come and sit back down.’

‘Oh my God, do you think we could be?’

‘I don’t know, do you?’

‘What if it’s positive, can you imagine?’

More grinning like loons.

‘Do you feel like you are?’

‘Yes. No. Oh God, I don’t know!’

‘Shit, we really could be pregnant!’

Fingers crossed harder than ever before.

‘Right, time’s up. What should we do?’

‘You look.’

‘No, you look.’

‘OK.’

‘Wait! Let’s look together.’

‘OK.’

And there it was for the world to see: Enceinte – 3–4 semaines.

We were pregnant. We were three to four weeks pregnant. It had only bloody worked!

We both stood in the middle of our lounge, clutching the test stick, clutching each other and crying tears of disbelief and happiness.

We couldn’t stop staring at each other in wide-eyed disbelief, fast calculating the due date to be sometime in late January, hugging each other, minds blown that there were now three of us sat together on the sofa, and wondering: When would I start showing? When we should go to the doctor? Would it be a boy or a girl? So many questions, so many emotions, so many exciting times ahead of us. A whole new world. A world we had no idea about.

Those first moments finding out we were going to be parents, that we were going to bring another being into the world, reminded me of how I feel when looking into the vastness of the night sky, so enormous, so unexplainable and breathtakingly beautiful. We were staring into the face of a miracle no words or thoughts could explain or even begin to contain.

So what do you do when faced with such a miracle? Well, if you’re greedy beggars like us, you get your asses out for a slap-up mountain dinner, of course! So, we packed ourselves and our new beautiful little secret into the car and went to a remote mountainside restaurant, where we were guaranteed not to bump into anyone we knew (word travels fast in a mountain village) and were therefore able to talk freely about our new little person and start making plans for our future as a family of three.

BRING IT ON!

CHAPTER 3

PREGNANT AND BLOOMING – (AKA BLOOMING DEMONIC, STARVING AND WILLING TO KILL FOR A CHEESE BURGER AND A FULL-FAT COKE)

Those weeks when we carried around our secret really were magical. Just the two of us, feeling excited and special, sharing the baby whilst the rest of the world was unawares. We went to the doctor and he assigned us a gynaecologist (down the mountain). We already knew of him thanks to his God-like status; he had delivered most of the babies in our village. My mates and I used to joke about how the same man had seen all our fannies! Bit crude maybe, but hey, when you’re pregnant and not drinking you have to get your kicks somewhere right?

MORNING SICKNESS – AKA FEELING CONSTANTLY HUNGOVER MINUS THE FUN OF GETTING INAPPROPRIATELY SMASHED!

Boy, oh boy, do we need these kicks when the all-day, ‘When is this going to end?’ morning sickness kicks in.

Oh yes, along came the seven weeks pregnant mark, bringing its stomach-turning mate with him, and so ensued six weeks of me feeling worse than I did the morning after drinking my body weight in Jaegar with the Vietnamese mafia. Oh and not to forget me looking radiant and blooming aka stuffing my face with Fizzy Haribo, Cheese Burgers and full fat Coke under a blanket on the sofa whenever I got the chance.

God, it was hell (not the stuffing my face obvs that was pretty, darn special). The sickness. Ugghhhh! My early pregnancy days consisted of peeling myself out of bed and wanting to puke or crumble into smithereens of exhaustion (usually both). And then having to get my sorry-for-myself ass ready to face the long and winding drive down the mountain and then across the border into Switzerland. All whilst switching between wanting to suck the life out of orange segments to wanting to puke up in the plastic carrier bag I now carried as a staple accessory on the passenger seat.

So, as you can imagine the last thing I felt at nine weeks pregnant was sociable! And I so wish someone at the time had told me it was OK to want to cocoon myself away from the world, to be able to come home, put on my fat bum pants and flake – after a day of fooling the rest of the outside world that I was feeling my usual normal self. If you are currently pregnant and wanting to do nothing more than sit on your gorgeous pregnant bottom and chill out, then guess what? You can! Now, go get your stretchy telly pants on, get horizontal and enjoy every moment of it, my lovely.

I was not prepared mentally for the level of emotions and exhaustion I felt. I had brought into the ‘I’m not sick, I’m just pregnant’ malarkey and was determined to carry on as normal despite just wanting to rest. No one had told me to ease off the pressure, to allow myself to be pregnant and tired and to know that this is OK. This is normal.

Without this little nugget of advice, my hubby had to learn the hard way of what it is like to cross swords with a knackered creator of human life.

One evening, I was feeling like total and utter dog turd thanks to the morning sickness. I’d spent the day at work pretending I was on top of my game to all my work colleagues whilst taking sneaky naps in the staff loos. I’d finally made it home after a particularly stomach-churning and exhausting drive home up the winding mountain roads, which had me dry-retching at every bend like a rabid dog. I walked into the house desperate to get into my PJs and onto the sofa, bury my face into my standard bag of Haribo, when my darling hubby reminded me that, there were other plans afoot: I now had to get my glad rags on because we were leaving in ten minutes to go for dinner with friends.

WTF?

I had no words. Literally not even one bloody syllable.

However, I did have huge, ugly, face-distorting, snot-dripping sobs, and proceeded to soak him, the kitchen floor and anything within three feet of me with them.

The look on my hubby’s face was priceless. Like some weird bugeyed, snot-a-whalling creature had just slithered her way in, pretending to be his wife. (He had no idea what was yet to come!)

Bewildered and fearing for his life, he dared to approach and try to convince me that it would be a good and enjoyable thing to go out for dinner with our friends.

He might as well have been inviting me to dine with Satan himself whilst sat on a pile of upturned drawing pins.

Now obviously, he was not growing body parts, so he couldn’t quite get his head around either my hysterics or the levels of unadulterated exhaustion and irrationality. As far as he was concerned, I had just finished work for the week and we could now look forward to a lovely night with our friends. However, for knackered and pregnant me, it was the end of my sofa-obsessed world. I’d driven to and from a different country to get to work, whilst trying not to puke my guts up on the mountainside or at the border control. Then I’d faced a long day of meetings talking about internal ad campaigns, meeting agendas and newsletters; endured a team meeting where everyone stank of coffee and fags; listened until my brain hurt trying to fathom out what everyone was saying in their lightning speed French – all whilst wanting to crawl under my desk, puke in the plant pot and take a nap on my colleague Jean-Luc’s discarded and very expensive laptop bag. I’d kept up the farcical charade that all was well, I was ‘fine’, on top of the world and my job.

Now the thought of having to continue the pretence and lie to my good friends, to desperately think of a believable excuse as to why I was not drinking my usual Friday night gallon of vin blanc whilst watching everyone else get pissed – when all I wanted to do was put on my elasticated PJ bottoms, curl up under a blanket and stuff my face with anything that would stop this nausea – was all just too much for this pregnant lady to take.

After more sobbing and some demonic grunts from my good self, the pregnancy penny finally dropped and my hubby realised that holy hell, he was actually talking to his wife who was now pregnant, overtired, overemotional and wanting to puke and then sleep for a billion years. With his life hanging in the balance, he got the message, tucked me up on the sofa and went to dinner armed with apologies and excuses for me not being able to make it. The moral of this story? Listen to yourself and do what’s best for you. You ARE allowed.

PREGNANCY CAN BE BLOODY SCARY

All was going well with my pregnancy. I felt like dog turd most of the time, but I’d read on one of the baby websites now bombarding me with emails, that it was a good sign to feel so ill. Then, at around seven weeks, we had the shock of our lives: I noticed I was bleeding. I felt sick and devastated, immediately thinking the worst. We phoned our doctor, who reassured us that this can be normal at this stage, but we wanted to go into hospital just to be on the safe side. The hospital was an hour away down the mountain (I was now beginning to curse the fact we were so far away!) and it became one of the longest drives of our lives. We drove most of the way in silence, not daring to voice our fears that the little person we had been secretly planning and celebrating was being taken away from us. We tried to fill that hour with reassuring words, but the fear in the air of our car was palpable.

Once we got to the hospital and were ushered into our room, the nurse explained she was going to do a scan and see if she could find a heartbeat. I felt sick, panicked and couldn’t dare let my mind wonder: What if she can’t?

They were long and terrifying minutes as she smothered my unpregnant-looking tummy with cold jelly and then proceeded to look for the baby and any sign of a tiny heart beat. She assured us that she was having trouble finding it only because the pregnancy was so early. Then she pressed down harder and bingo, she found it! We were relieved for a millisecond – until she informed us that she was worried that it was very faint and told us that we’d have to come back in a week’s time.

Faint? What the hell did that mean? Did she know something we didn’t and was holding out on us? Was there something wrong and we were going to find out the full extent of how wrong at the next scan? I wanted to scream at her for not giving us the reassurance that everything was OK! I knew that it wasn’t her fault and that she had to be as matter-of-fact as possible with us, but I could have swung at her for being so black and white and unemotional with us.

So, relieved and worried sick all at the same time, we left the hospital and somehow got through the next week, worrying that any little twinge meant something sinister – and worrying even more if I didn’t feel as sick as I thought I should be or had been a few days prior. Thankfully one week and another scan later we got the news we had been longing for: so far, all was OK with our baby and the heartbeat was now normal for the time in its pregnancy. We left the hospital clutching the scan picture of our alien-like but perfectly normal tiny human and cried with relief and happiness all the way back up the mountain. Now, we thought, we could get on with the rest of the pregnancy, knowing the baby was healthy.

However, the night before our twelve-week scan, I started to bleed heavily. This made our previous scare seem like nothing. It was dinnertime when it happened, and in despair and blind panic we called the hospital to see what we should do. ‘Nothing’ was their pragmatic, black and white response. I was advised to stay where I was, to take it easy, and monitor the bleeding – and, if I started to get severe pains, to go straight in. The harsh and heartbreaking reality was that if I was having a miscarriage, then medically there was nothing they could do to stop it. We would have no choice but to let nature run its course. So, we did. I sat there numb, with my feet up on a cushion (thinking this would help keep the baby where it should be), not daring to move, just waiting to see what happened. Since we had our twelve-week scan booked for the following day, I knew I just had to sit tight, keep calm and hope beyond hope that everything was going to be OK.

We arrived the next morning, grim-faced, racked with anxiety and fearing the worst – and got to see why our gynaecologist was held in such God-like esteem. As soon as we told him what had happened the night before, he cut our conversations short and whisked me into the scan room. Before I knew what was happening or had any time to worry further, he had the probe on my tummy and a heartbeat booming out on high volume around the room.

‘C’est bon!’ – ‘It’s fine’

I could have French kissed that French man right there and then in front of my hubby and my unborn child. Happy, relieved, over the moon – none of that comes even close to the delight that I felt. And this wasn’t only to do with the obvious and overwhelming relief that our baby was OK and had survived another scare, but also the way in which he dealt with the whole situation. No messing about, no long lingering wait to find the heartbeat, no doubt-filled seconds of dread. Just bang, boom, everything fine!

Our tiny human was only twelve weeks in creation and was already causing heart-stopping drama and keeping us well and truly on our toes. We were soon to find out this would follow us into later pregnancy and out into the real world. (More of this little beauty later!)

IT’S NOT ‘C’EST BON’ FOR EVERYONE

I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to take a little pause here to pay respect to those mums and dads who don’t get the news they are longing to hear about their tiny humans. Who don’t get to feel the relief the words ‘everything’s normal’ brings. Whose scares are not just scares but are instead warning signs that something is terribly wrong or that their little person is having to leave them. I want to honour all the precious tiny humans who are no longer with us, and show my love and respect to all the mums, dads and families who have suffered.

** Anyone needing support after going through child bereavement please see the list of support services detailed in the back of the book on page 236

TRYING AND FAILING TO KEEP UP THE ‘I’M NOT PREGNANT!’ CHARADE!

I think one of the most exhausting things when you first become pregnant (alongside the raging hormones and zapping of energy due to your body performing its very own hidden miracle) is the whole bloody effort of keeping it hidden from your nearest and dearest. I have no idea what I was thinking when I concocted my own tall tales of ‘I’m not pregnant bullshit’, but wow, they were pretty special.

I took my big pregnancy cover-up to epic proportions. You see, not quite satisfied with the bog standard and tried-and-tested cover-ups used by millions of pregnant ladies before me – ‘I’m on antibiotics’, ‘I’m on a detox’, ‘I’m the designated driver’ etc., etc. – I instead concocted such a ridiculous tale that not even I was convinced by it. Now, before we carry on with this, I’m going to apologise to you right now for how much you are going to cringe throughout the next section and also question (probably not for the first or the last time) how much level of crazy and downright idiotic one person can be. Read on, my friend, read on …

So, there I was, pregnant and coming from the school of thought that the more detail and extravagant the story, the more likely people were to believe it. Right? Especially since, as far as my good friends were concerned, me turning down booze at a party, a dinner or, let’s face it, anything even slightly like a social gathering was like me refusing to breathe. Therefore, my thinking was that it had to be something quite dramatic for them to believe me. (I am aware now that I sound like a total boozehound.)

So the storyteller in me set out to weave her tall and incredibly shit tales. Tales that involved me blurting out to anyone and everyone who even made the slightest suggestion that I may want a drink or to consume a slightly undercooked anything: ‘I have parasites.’

Oh yes, that old chestnut.

Seriously, what was I thinking?

And why the hell did my poor hubby go along with it? (Oh yes, dear friends, I took him down with me too.)

There we would be, throughout those first twelve weeks of pregnancy, attending BBQs, birthday parties and dinners out with friends. Me and my hubby side by side and nodding in unison as I proclaimed for the billionth time that ‘Yes, the reason I am not drinking is because I have parasites!’ All whilst my friends, acquaintances, and sometimes people I’d never even met before looked at me with a mix of bemusement and what can only be described as mild disgust as they imagined me being riddled with these parasites running amok around my body and stopping me from drinking. I mean, come on, why the hell would having parasites stop me from drinking? It’s fair to say that pregnancy had driven me slightly cuckoo.

Luckily, most people who heard this tall and ever so slightly odd tale seemed convinced enough – or, at least slightly disgusted or embarrassed enough – not to probe deeper. Instead, they would back away from me slowly whilst taking a big gulp from the glass of wine they had been offering to me. That is, until one day, when I found myself at another BBQ (damn being pregnant during good weather months!), turning down rosé coming at me from every direction and spinning the same bullshit yarn about my bloody parasites to everyone.

I’d gotten quite good at it, too. Like any good storyteller, I was dedicated to my craft and had embellished it as the weeks had past. These imaginary parasites had now become something I’d picked up whilst travelling around Vietnam and which had laid dormant until now to attack with a vengeance. Poor old me, eh.

Usually this was the point where my tall tale would stop, the audience satisfied by the amount of detail and, quite frankly, put off by the grossness of it all. But this evening my audience included a nurse.

Oh yes, there I was, telling my fully embellished tale to a medical professional, who after listening carefully to my sorrowful tale and nodding in all the right places, asked: ‘Do you really have parasites?’

‘Yes, yes I have, bloody awful they are,’ I replied, following it with my well practised sigh of acceptance.

‘But, what do you mean?’

Oh shit … ‘Well, I have parasites.’

‘Right, but how? Which type?’

Oh shit, shit, shit! ‘I can’t quite remember the long name for them.’ I was starting to unravel. ‘I’ve had blood tests and everything [don’t know what the hell I meant by everything] and the doctor reckons I picked them up whilst travelling around Vietnam.’

‘Right, and where are they these parasites?’

She had me on the run. ‘In my bum.’ IN MY BUM?!? MY GOD WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME? I’d just told someone I’d never met before, in the middle of a summer BBQ, that I had Vietnamese parasites residing in my arsehole. Still, I was determined to keep this long-established cock and bull story on track, so I embellished further, explaining they were sore and itched like hell.

‘What and you can’t drink because of them?’

There was no let up with this woman! ‘No, because I am on antibiotics for them.’

‘Oh really? Which ones? I’m a nurse and I could check them for if you want, as you can drink on some of them, you know.’

Sod this! I was in above my head this time, trying to con a medical professional who quite obviously knew her shit and could see through mine. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, I’m pregnant and I just made up all of that rubbish. I don’t have parasites. I’m having a baby.’

‘Ha, ha, and that’s the best story you could come up with?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is.’ Hangs head in shame.

Game, set, match to the inquisitive medical professional.

Luckily, this switched-on and shrewd nurse soon went on to become one of my best mates and it turns out she was pregnant too (minus the shit cover-up story). She was already at the twelve-week stage, so all this making up of tall tales to convince people you were the carrier of parasites rather than a baby was now behind her.

Needless to say it was a bloody relief to finally get to tell everyone.

‘I’M NOT SICK, I’M JUST PREGNANT’

So, I have been pregnant for a grand total of two times. Both pregnancies were such polar opposites that it made me realise that pregnancy can be wonderful (as it was with my first), but it can also totally screw you over (as it did with my second, me lying on my hippo-sized arse unable to do anything for fear of the baby coming prematurely). Who knew that bringing life into this world can be a wonderful, sun shining, birds singing, blooming in the face of the world experience one time and the next time make you feel so awful that you never want to do it again?

I have to admit I was a smug pregnant biatch with my first tiny human. So much so that the thought of me bounding along with my neat bump, glossy pregnancy hair, glowing skin and full of energy, chanting the motto of ‘I’m not sick, I’m just pregnant’, made my second-time pregnant self want to go back in time and punch my smug self in my smug face.

After the passing of the morning sickness in my first pregnancy, I felt great. I was full of energy and optimism. I exercised three times a week, and had a personal pregnancy yoga instructor who had me and bump doing shoulder stands. My hair and skin looked the best it ever had, I was full of life in every sense of the word, and so, so excited about being pregnant and becoming a mum. I can honestly say it was one of the happiest times of my life, when I felt my most calm and purposeful, doing exactly what I was meant to be doing.

You can imagine my shock when my second pregnancy didn’t quite follow the same pattern and instead taught me that pregnancy can also be one of the toughest, anxiety-riddled and overwhelming times too. And a time when we are at our most unwell. At just sixteen weeks pregnant with my second tiny human, I was having contractions, suffering from extremely low blood pressure, put on bed rest and signed off work. Oh yes, no yoga head stands for me! Like I said, pregnancy polar opposites!

So, I am going to break the mould here of every baby book that has come before me and say this:

Not every pregnancy is a delight.

You are not guaranteed to have a textbook pregnancy where everything is blooming and glowing in your garden. Sometimes you can have a pregnancy that makes you wish each day away, not to be closer to the day you get to hold your baby, but to be closer to the day where you will no longer feel like death warmed up. I am here to tell you that if you are currently feeling like this or have felt like this, you are not alone. It’s OK, you are not the devil just because you don’t or didn’t enjoy being pregnant.

Pregnancy is also a time when we can start to feel judged on the decisions we make – from what we eat and how we exercise to what type of birth we are planning. This is where I felt the first elements of judgement starting to trickle into my life. What ‘type’ of pregnant was I going to be? The cool and easy-going pregnant, carrying on as normal, eating what I liked, socialising in flats and not batting a knackered eyelid at being designated driver YET AGAIN? The whingy and precious pregnant, griping about everything from how tired I was to how fat I was getting? The crazy neurotic pregnant, worrying over every little thing, doing everything by the book and not daring to have uncooked meat in the house let alone on my plate? Or the earth mother pregnant, walking barefoot, wafting joss sticks and ensuring an environment of positivity at all times around my growing bump and praying to Aluna, my pregnancy goddess. (Please note I have no idea who Aluna is. Cool name, though. Big shout out to any of you Alunas out there.)

The judgement also seeped into how I looked. Was my bump going to be ‘neat and tidy’ or more like an out-of-control oil spill in the Pacific, smothering everything in its path? Was I going to look fifty-seven weeks rather than the seventeen weeks I was? Or would bump and I look like a celeb mum rocking the chic bump without the heaven of a maternity legging in sight (I still miss them!)?

I came to realise the sorry (and, quite frankly, disturbing) levels of judgement fired down on pregnant women when I was stopped in the street by someone I barely knew, who proceeded to compliment me on how well I looked (nice) and how tiny my bump was. (Apparently, having a small bump and hardly looking pregnant equates to looking well; seems a bit weird.) Then she started to rip pieces out of another pregnant lady she knew who had ‘a massive bump’, telling me I should be ‘grateful’ because I looked so much better than her. WTF? I stood there in shock as one woman ripped into a pregnant woman about how she looked. It was offensive. It was uncalled for. It was a judgemental attack I had not seen since the playground.

I often think this was one of the first instances when I felt an urge to stand up for and protect other mums and mums-to-be. This was the place where my passion and fire was lit in honour of supporting every mum – no judgement. It was an empowering realisation that it is our job as women to lift up our fellow warriors on the battlefield of life rather than to be the ones slaying them and leaving them gurgling facedown in the mud.

The judgement I encountered during both pregnancies, and the huge differences I experienced, has fuelled my belief that us mums need to be prepared for whatever pregnancy throws at us, to ensure that we are not left in a bedraggled state before the hard work really starts – once we’ve pushed out our tiny humans into the world and life gets real.

Not in any of the pregnancy books that I read, did it ever mention that being pregnant is not always a walk in the park. That at times it can be a bit crap and at other times downright terrifying. That as life-affirming and wonderful and as easy as it can be for some, for others it can be anything but. That not everyone gets the cookie cutter pregnancy described in the media. That, like pregnancy bumps, pregnancy itself comes in all shapes and sizes and we should all be talking about ALL experiences of it (the good, the bad and the scary), to ensure we are all as prepared and as mentally strong as possible for whatever comes our way. Most importantly, we should not be judging other mums but empowering and supporting every mum through their pregnancies.

THE BULLS*** TO IGNORE WHEN PREGNANT

One of the things that always bemused me – and, if I’m honest, felt pressured by – was the amount of opinions laid on me while pregnant. From how I should be acting, feeling and dressing to how big my bump was, to what I should or should not be eating. The list goes on and on and on and on and on until you want to stick your own cankle in your mouth (or theirs) to make them stop!

I wish someone had told me that I didn’t have to take it all on board or so personally. That just because advice is offered I didn’t have to take it. And that, more importantly, advice is a bit like shoes: you don’t have room in your wardrobe for every pair. Some you won’t like, and some, which you think will be perfect for you, won’t fit at all. Most importantly, sometimes you will say to hell with it all and instead walk barefoot, shoe- and advice-free.

This is what really inspired me to put pen to paper, so that mums-to-be who found themselves in some of the situations I faced during my pregnancies would know they are not alone. That they don’t have to give a crap about what anyone else thinks; the only opinion which really matters is their own. It’s your pregnancy, your body and your baby, after all!

With that in mind, here is my list of the bullshit to ignore when pregnant:

1. ‘Remember you are pregnant, not ill.’

Really? Have you really just said that to my face? To my green around the gills, If I have to smell a waft of air freshener or whiff another overripe banana I am going to puke my guts up. Oh, and I should feel grateful should I that I have only twelve weeks of this to endure all whilst pretending that I am fine and bloody dandy? That my boobs don’t ache beyond recognition? That my skin is not itching all over like I am infested with a billion creepy crawlies? That I am rushing to the toilet to dry retch every half-hour? All whilst my brain is on high alert panicking over every slight twinge and my body just wants to wave the white flag and surrender into a crumpled heap on the floor.

Anyone who dares to breathe these words to you whilst pregnant deserves a short, sharp punch in the gut.

2. ‘Don’t be too precious about yourself.’

WTF? You are growing a human being all on your own. That’s right: tiny feet, hands, heart and a brain, to name just a few of the awe-inspiring tasks you are completing on a weekly basis! If anyone deserves to be treated like a precious commodity, it is you and your growing bump! Over the years, the term ‘precious’ has been used as a derogatory term. ‘Ooh, she’s a bit precious’, ‘Ooh, you don’t have to be so precious about yourself.’ Well I am saying a big up yours to these idiots who dare say this to expectant or new mums.

Taking care of yourself and doing what feels right for you and your bump whilst pregnant is top of your agenda – and to hell with anyone who uses the p-word.

3. ‘You have to carry on as normal.’

Normal – are you kidding me? There is nothing normal or day-to-day about harbouring a human stowaway in your body for nine months and then passing it through the eye of a needle that is your vagina. If you feel great and want to go to all the social engagements and gym classes going, fantastic! However, if the thought of keeping up appearances and making out that you feel blooming and bursting with energy is making you want to squeeze lemon onto the backs of your eyeballs, then just say no! Yes, the magic word that evaporates all the responsibilities and hassle of having to get ready in a bump-flattering outfit, paint on a smile and pretend that you wouldn’t rather be at home in your PJs, watching Corrie and eating chocolate biscuits.

4. ‘In my day there was none of this nonsense about what you should and shouldn’t be doing when pregnant.’

Yes, but you also had parent and baby books advising you that smoking was OK as long as it was in moderation! Obviously, there are some things that can now seem a bit OTT when it comes to all the things pregnant mums need to remember as out of bounds and harmful to themselves and their growing baby. However, some of these restrictions are there for a valid reason (aka medical advances) and just because they were not around thirty years ago does not mean that they are a scaremongering tactic or that as mums we are being fussy and overcautious if we abide by them. We are just doing what we have been advised is the best way to bring our baby into this world, so please don’t try and make us feel otherwise.

5. ‘Once you get that baby in your arms, everything will feel right.’

We all know that we need to keep ourselves fit and well throughout pregnancy, and that we need to prepare for childbirth through regular exercise and good nutrition. However, we don’t often take time to ensure we are taking care of our mental wellbeing. We are instead told that, once we become a mum, everything will just feel ‘right’. But what do we do if it doesn’t?

Both our bodies and our minds go through huge monumental changes whilst we are pregnant, and then when we become mums. Therefore, we need to make sure we take care of our mental health by ensuring that we talk about any anxieties and worries we may have, and by taking time out to rest. We have to make ourselves a priority by educating ourselves on maternal mental health illnesses – what they are and where to get the right help and support if we are suffering through pregnancy or following the birth of our baby. (For anyone needing support during pregnancy or after the birth of your baby then please see page 236–page 238 for support services you can access.)

6. ‘Ohhh let me have a feel!’

They come at you from out of nowhere. Before you know it, you have a pair of hands feeling and rubbing their way across your stomach whilst you look on in shock and dismay. And as your pregnancy and size of bump progresses, it seems you are fair game for anyone to have a grope. The worst are the totally inappropriate tummy terrorists who think that feeling the lower part of your bump is acceptable rather than verging on sexual harassment. ‘Don’t you realise your hands are sitting on the top of my vagina! Please get the hell away from me!’

7. ‘Wow you’re getting big!’

The only comment anyone should pass about the size of your bump or appearance during pregnancy is to tell you how great you look. I don’t care if you are the size of a hippo on steroids or are alternatively verging on the smaller side, no one should be passing comment – at least, not out loud and not to your face! Comments such as ‘Wow, you’re getting big’ should be met with ‘No shit Sherlock, I’m growing a human. What’s your excuse?’ And anyone who dares comment, ‘Wow you’re tiny, are you sure that’s normal?’ should be met with a kick to the shin.

8. ‘When can we come and stay?’

‘Hmmmm, you can’t!’. Visitors popping in for an hour is one thing. Hopefully, they will come bearing prepared meals and compliments and no expectations of being hosted, and then after whipping the hoover around and washing up their tea cups, they’ll be on their merry way. Overnight houseguests you don’t have to accept. You have become a mum, not a B & B!

9. ‘Oh you’re taking the easy way out and having an epidural?’

There is no ‘easy way’ out when you are trying to push a baby out of a small hole in your body. Fact. As mums-to-be we are bombarded with opinions about how we should be bringing our tiny human into the world, with our options graded from being hardcore and doing it drug-free to taking the easy way out by having an epidural or a C-section. Let me be the first to tell you that all of it is damn hardcore! Each option is challenging and scary as hell. No matter how you bring your tiny human into the world, you are a ROCK STAR!

10. ‘So, come on, tell me your baby names.’

DON’T DO IT! Seriously, no matter how strong the urge to spill the beans on the carefully planned names that both you and your partner have fallen in love with, keep them to yourself. Just one slightly off response of ‘Oh, really’ or ‘Wow, that’s a bit unusual’ will have you backtracking for the rest of your pregnancy.

11. ‘Ooh, make the most of your sleep/life/whatever – because when the baby comes, your life is over!’

Just shut the fuck up, will you!

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