The Breezy (not) Second Trimester

I’m now 18 weeks in, and have been promised that this is by far the most blissful and wonderful stage of pregnancy.

It’s not.

At 16 weeks, despite smugly proclaiming to all and sundry that I’d avoided the dreaded morning sickness, my Saturday morning was rudely interrupted by a severe bout of vomming. Annoying if you’ve got nowhere to be; downright inconvenient when your car is due in for a service first thing and you’re bent over the toilet throwing up your emergency ginger biscuit. What was worse was the reaction from the man at BMW when I eventually rocked up, ‘half an hour late’ (I was not. I specifically booked my car for 9am and arrived at 4 minutes past). Pale, watery eyed and smelling vaguely sicky, I had no time for his tutting and promptly snapped at him. I’ve now sworn off buying a mum-mobile from BMW (I know it won’t be from him. I’ll have moved by then and the dealership we previously used in the South West were always lovely. But it’s the principle!)

I still just feel a bit fat. Having lost a lot of weight in my late teens, I’ve never had the pleasure of a flat stomach, more a saggy sack, and my tummy has a very distinct upper and lower section which creates a little roll in the middle. I thought this might even out in pregnancy. Oh no. If anything, it’s more distinct, and sticking out more and more by the day. Beautiful slim fitting dresses a-la Cheryl whatever-her-name-is-these-days are not an option, and I’m finding increasing comfort in moomoos. And I’m obviously looking a bit rounder too. Whilst complaining to my dad about the continued gag enforced by work on sharing my news (see below), he responded with ‘well anyone can tell you look different. Your tummy, your face, they all look a bit…’. A bit what, Dad? Tubby? Moonfaced? Did I mention I’m also a bit sensitive at the moment too?

Work’s ridiculous gagging order rumbles on. For a while I was so cross about it that I just started telling clients. They were all predictably happy for me, understanding and kind, though there was a hint of apprehension about what would happen next in terms of cover whilst I’m off. I casually told my boss I’d started sharing. His response? Stop it. ‘They’ll need to know what the plan is for whilst you’re off! There isn’t a plan!’ Not my problem sir. The company have had months to get their heads round this after telling them at 6 weeks. When client relationships are so integral to how we do business, deliberately keeping something from them is against my integrity. It would appear I’m becoming very principled in my preggo state (see above).

But there are some positives. I’ve found The Pair of maternity jeans, which I never, ever want to take off (thanks JoJoMamaBebe). My skin is a lot clearer than it would be normally. And I’m now sufficiently far gone (apparently) to start PLANNING. Planning is what the OH and I do best. The baby was even mapped out on a spreadsheet, and true to my husband’s impeccable scheduling (not mine), conception fell at the exact moment we pencilled it in for, something which, to this day, remains a minor miracle to me.

Planning has always been a pleasure – a chance to get excited about something which feels miles off in the future. When we go on holiday (probably something of the past now we have a mortgage and an impending small one on the way), we buy the appropriate version of our favourite DK travel guide, and sit for hours working out the logistics of our far-flung trips. Once the dreaded 12 weeks were out of the way, we bought a load of baby books (including the usual ‘How to Expect When You’re Expecting’, which made me vom in my mouth a bit with sickly sentimentality) and, my favourite, ‘The Hipster Baby Name Book’, which has genuinely given us some ideas. We have carefully folded over pages to return to later and diligently made lists on our phones. We have also spent a lot of money. Our nursery furniture and bassinet thing (still don’t get why I need this) are all turning up on 3rd July, just in time for the start of my maternity leave, and we now have a house full of smaller items of baby paraphernalia, all in beautifully matching shades of grey (which won’t show up shit stains at all, of course not). When we find out the sex in a couple of weeks, I might even add in some colour. You never know.

So, despite the sickiness, the fatness, the frustration with work, I’m starting to feel – dare I say it – excited? Maybe because we are starting to do things in our own way. I bloody love a reference book. I like shopping. If that’s what it takes to get me through the next few months, then so be it.

Oh, and I told another customer today. #sorrynotsorry, boss.


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