The last 2 weeks of pregnancy number 2, in stages. 

Sheer physical enormity…

Breasts rest on belly, belly rests on thighs, thighs spread to fill any flat surface unfortunate enough to be bearing my considerable heft.

I now walk with the gait of The Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters.

Weirdly mobile joints make standing up more of an exercise in trying not to look like a weeble.

Due to the unfamiliarly large volume I now take up, my belly bumps into everything and everyone, gets spilled on, wet from standing too close to sinks, grazed regularly by things like toilet cubicle doors (manoeuvring into those has now become a fifteen-time-a-day chore) and gesticulated into by colleagues.

Rage glorious rage…
My all pregnancy-long even temperament this time around has been lovely, I’ve floated around, donut in hand feeling accepting of others and unusually tolerant. I’ve let things wash over me at work, showed understanding and empathy when people have muscled in front of me on the tube and generally had a long fuse.
Over the past week my hormones have undergone the “two weeks to go” change and the main symptom is that I now take extreme pleasure from fantasising about kicking people down escalators. All I want to do is go through my daily commute screaming in people’s faces and hurting anyone who comes within 12 inches of me, which, because I get the Northern Line, feels like EVERYONE IN LONDON.
The heavily pregnant rage has set in, I have NO fuse and I am scared. I am scared for my poor husband who put a plate in the wrong area of the dishwasher the other night and I am scared for my fellow commuters who don’t realise the danger they are in on a daily basis.
Veering between desperation to go into labour and sheer terror of going into labour…
I know what it involves, I know it hurts like nothing I have ever felt before. It is a kind of inhuman pain that turns normal women into demons. I remember clawing rampantly at the window in the admissions ward the first time around growling in a terrifying, possessed voice “if this window opened I would be jumping out of it, get me drugs, please just give me some drugs!“.
I sit at my desk thinking about this and the fact that I will have two children soon – two. Two children under two.
I shudder inwardly and try to block the images of a toddler tantrum, newborn screaming tag team, supermarket trips from hell and general double death worry that will occupy the next what, 4 years of my life…
The next minute I am googling “how to give yourself a sweep” and scoffing pineapple until my mouth bleeds.
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Lady Luck is real b*tch

Last night, Saturday night, I was walking round my newly installed and decorated  kitchen, getting ready to make our dinner. Thanks to my (genius) subscription to one of those companies for lazy, uninspired people who still want a nice non ready meal of an evening, it came ready measured with a handy recipe card. Basically I was feeling pretty smug. Nice new (tidy for once) house, husband I fancy, cute kid. Life was good. I told my husband and he said “watch it, you know our luck, it can’t last long”. Pessimist. 

Well, today I went shopping for maternity underwear. Needless to say, my bubble burst pretty quickly. It’s certainly a first world problem, but sifting through racks of pants, right to the back, for the pairs which might as well be labelled “sew up the legs and these can also be used as childrens’ sleeping bags!” is pretty soul crushing. And the bras which, at the size I now need, only come in flesh tones…I wanted to cry. When I finally found a huge enough boob-restraining device that didn’t come in “insipid”, I saw with joy a little tag that said “comes with matching bottoms”. Which turned out to be Brazilian briefs. Basically the ones that let your butt cheeks just dangle out the bottom. I threw them down in horror. I mean seriously, if you’ve got a rack that uncontrollable, you’re going to be pretty out of proportion if you’ve got a butt that can hold up to those pants. And if you’re in proportion, surely you need a butt restraining device just as sturdy as needed for the top half?
I headed home with my bag of flesh-tones, thankful that my husband was mature and understanding enough to accept that I would now be undressing and showering in the dark for the foreseeable future. 
The first thing he did when I showed him my new breast hammocks was to shout “whheeeeyyyyyyyyyy” and approach me, hands outstretched, to try some sort of jiggling manoeuvre. 
Then he asked if he could put a dart board in the newly decorated “grown-up” spare bedroom room. “Right there” he pointed “Above the feature fireplace”. 
I suggested an anatomical location for the dartboard and went to console myself in the kitchen, with some food to aid the rapid expansion of my booty, suppressing a vengeful cackle that I knew that tonight’s dinner-in-a-box involved quinoa, lentils and just a teeny spoonful of meat. 
Then I bit into a chewy sweet and my root canal fell out. 
Damn you lady luck. Damn you all the way to the damn dentist and back. 

The right side of 30?

I was in my new office last week, where I sit on a bank of desks with 3 other women. I thought, maybe (ambitiously) we were all around the same age…until I got to know them a little better and realised I was simply the wrong side of 30 to join in with their banter. 

The “fittest guy in the office” discussion left me cold when I realised the person they were referring to was a teenage looking boy I had actual maternal feelings towards.

I’m simply no longer attracted to slightly scruffy, slender hipped, chest hairless man-boys with directional hair. Bring me that roughty-toughty bloke nudging 40 that’s digging up the road out there and I’d be putty in his big ol’ man-hands. 
The flat, leather hush-puppy style shoes all of them were wearing, and discussing breaking in techniques for are apparently now must-have fashion items. My dad used to wear them in brown, and whilst I coveted Kickers for school, I was forced instead, into these, heinous calf thickening clodhoppers. I detested them with every fibre of my being and, like navy cardigans, duffel coats and other school uniform items from the 80s, I wouldn’t be seen dead in them now.
Leather satchels complete with name tag holder on the front: see above. Had one, coveted a Nike backpack and will never let a satchel darken my doorstep again. 
Friday rolled around and the 3pm Spotify playlist was put on. A “Requests please” chat window popped up on my screen. “Great!” I thought but I decided to hold back to sense the tone before diving in with some Friday afternoon classics of my own. I’d been burnt whilst working at TimeOut London where the music was all by bands I’d never even heard of and my music choices were reserved for times when everyone needed a good belly laugh. Luckily here the music was recognisable and my request went down well, however it sparked a discussion about what it reminded everyone of. For me it was my first year in London as a working girl of 22. For the majority of the office it was the first years of junior school and for one it was “when I was 8”. To quote my TimeOut colleagues “*facepalm*”. 
They all went to get ready for the night ahead in outfits stashed under their desks and came out in a bronzed haze of perfume and eyelashes in metallic shorts-over-tights, culottes and all manner of outfits that I clearly missed the fashion update on. I squeezed my pudgy, pregnant feet into my commuting flats and headed home to my family where my outfit for the evening was pyjama bottoms and comfy slippers and my company was my roughty-toughty husband whose man-hands were deftly managing a BBQ. 
Surely right side of 30 is the side where I wake up on Saturday morning, complete many productive tasks before breakfast time and am ready and out of the door by 9am? But any smugness is ruined for, due to the wonder that is pregnancy, I bet I feel more bloated, nauseated and have a far worse headache than the ones still in bed at noon. *facepalm*