Pregnancy Diary Week 8: Maternity Jeans
Ok, I’ve done it. I know I shouldn’t say it but I have. I’ve been thinking about it for a couple of weeks now, and I just couldn’t wait any longer. It feels wrong but now I’ve done it, it feels so right. Don’t judge me but… I’ve bought some bloody maternity jeans. Frankly, this was overdue, and both my internal psyche and gut have breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t share this information lightly. It’s not something I’m proud of, but part of me feels a little bit naughty and a little bit rogue. Like a really unsexy version of going out with no underwear on. I walk around knowing nobody else has any idea that under my t-shirt is… an enormous waistline and enveloping belly pouch, which looks ridiculous but feels oh so comfortable. During my first pregnancy I didn’t indulge in the joys of maternity wear until about half way through, but in all honesty, I’m quite fat after Christmas and my body can’t take the discomfort of regular jeans digging in to my already expanded and expanding belly. I feel much bigger this time. So much so, that I genuinely keep wondering if I’ll go to the first scan only to be told that I’m actually five months pregnant and due to have twins. Stranger things have happened. I recall terrifying memories of Sonia Jackson on Eastenders giving birth on her living room sofa with no prior knowledge of her pregnancy. Every sexually active yet slightly overweight teenage girl’s worst nightmare. It was the year 2000 and I was 17 at the time, so this petrifying storyline was the best possible form of contraception. Much more effective than post sex standing on your head and dousing your hoohar with Pepsi (not Coke – this was very important), as suggested by my clearly very worldly but slightly dim friend. NB other more formal contraception options are available and should be discussed with your medical practitioner. Ahhh, contraception… too late now. As well as suspecting that I must be much further along than I clearly know I am, the twins theory is one that I’m running with at the moment. “Surely, there must be more than one baby in there?!” My inner monologue sounds like one of those irritating acquaintances we all have to endure at some stage during pregnancy. The ones with no social filter, who often choose to share their constructive opinions with you about how big or small or tired you look, or their predictions about the sex of your baby, or even worse, their own horrifying experiences of birth. Much more on them later, I’m sure. So yes, my body is screaming: “multiples!!!” and I have taken to researching twin cot beds and child benefit at 2am, with no real solid rationale other than my pregnancy crazy and my fat arse. But at least as I lie there overthinking, I can be safe in the knowledge that said arse has some darn comfy jeans to look forward to the next day. Maternity jeans, you are my new love.