I am typing this article with fingers the size of jumbo sausages. I seem to be suffering from a common but very unwelcome pregnancy side effect called oedema, which is a build-up of fluid causing swelling to the hands and feet. It has just about finished me off in the attractiveness stakes. Up until this point, my hands and feet were probably the only parts of my body that hadn't become victims of this excess spread of maternity fat. Now my unsightly digits match the rest of my figure - super-sized and swollen. If I get any more bloated I'm sure to become inflatable. I will float away like a helium balloon to a far away land reserved for big bloaters, over-eaters and large expectant mothers.
Still, looking on the bright side, there are less than five weeks to go until I reach my due date. Surely it can't get any worse in that short space of time? I've decided that my attitude has been far too negative throughout this pregnancy and I am now refocusing my mind on the end product. Spurred on by this new positive outlook, I took the sensible step of signing up for antenatal classes. After my first session, I felt in such a great frame of mind that I asked the teacher if I could borrow one of the birth DVDs. She'd referred to a particular DVD documentary a couple of times in the class, saying it showed two very different but very positive birth experiences. Armed with my new good attitude, I settled down to watch it, smiling as the cute title Happy Birthday flashed up on the screen. Shortly after, the smile was rapidly wiped off my face and my brighter outlook faded to black. It was like the ultimate horror movie. Not just because of its gory, graphic detail, but because the women on the TV were howling like wounded animals. I don't know how I'm going to get through it. I'm a complete wimp when it comes to pain. I yelped out loud last week when a nail bar technician was cutting my slightly ingrown toe nail. I have a feeling labour could be slightly worse.
Another thing that struck me in the DVD was just how ugly newborn babies are. It seems the pain and trauma of childbirth is rewarded with the mother being handed a reddish-purple coloured baby with a face that looks similar to a professional boxer's. After he's just lost a match. I don't know who is going to look worse in those precious first "after event" photographs. My sweating red face, or the baby's. Clammy Mammy presents hot tot. That must be why people always peer at those first pictures and immediately say, "Oh, doesn't he/she look like you!"
I picked myself up and returned to my antenatal class feeling like I should at least try to embrace this whole maternity experience. I gave a limited contribution but then managed to silence the room twice with my only two questions. One: will the nursing staff wash the baby before they hand it to me? Two: at which point in hospital will I have to take my pants off? Perfectly reasonable questions, I thought, but I'm not sure what sort of impression I've made on the rest of the group. Probably the extreme opposite of Earth Mother. Oh dear, I am the world's worst mum. And the baby is not even born yet.
