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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Clothing a pregnant Inbetweener 

Yes you’re past the 12 week mark and you can tell people you’re expecting – but there’s this awkward period around 14-18 weeks when you have what, to you, is a “mini bump” but if you’re like me, you also have a layer of “storage” everywhere else, thus making the “bump” less obvious. Now, this is annoying for 2 reasons. Firstly, you have probably grown out of all your pre pregnancy clothes (if not, get the hell outta here!) but you are not yet big enough for your uber preggers gear. You’re definitely not yet at the stage of “Im so enormous I don’t give a Buxton what I wear as long as it covers me” and you’re possibly still at the grasping at straws “I can probably still wear these bigger jeans in the back of my wardrobe…I’m pulling…I’m pulling…I’m…doing…up…the…button. I’m in! I’M IN! Er…they’re ripping…aaaaand I’m crying. Again.” stage. 

So here’s the dilemma, what do you use to cover your ass for the next month or so until your belly looks like a bonafide baby bump and less “is it bloat? Is it a bad outfit? Do I give up my seat to her or am I risking a punch in the throat?”. 
Well today I went shopping for that very outfit. In my case it also needs to say “thank you for giving me a job for six months you glorious people, I promise I haven’t forgotten everything  I ever knew about how to do it and I definitely promise I haven’t got that sexist “baby brain” thing which makes you act like an uber moron. Oh and sorry I was late, I forgot my laptop and had to go back for it and then I got the wrong train…ha ha”. 
So, with the toddler at a 2 hour settling in session with her babysitter, and my incredibly specific outfit in mind, I ran (really) to the only shop on my high street which stocks maternity clothes and started searching (through the 2 solitary rails hidden in the corner on an entirely different floor to the women’s clothes). 
My choices were “Fashionable Cool Pregnant Woman”: khaki skinny biker jeans with knee ridges, tight belly hugging jumpers with see-through lace panels, patterned parachute pants, shorts (SHORTS!!) and bodycon dresses. 
After a quick flick through that rail, becoming more and more horrified as as I progressed (SHORTS?!) I swiftly headed towards my rail which I entitled “Fine! I’ve Completely Given Up”: black leggings that go up to your chin, huge jumpers, huge t shirts, huge dresses, huge bras, huge tights and huge knickers. 
I put them all in my basket and huffed to the till. The young, fashionable man at the till painstakingly folded each item, getting to the huge bras and huge pants and taking extra care to shake out their full volume and fold them out as one would a duvet cover. 
The whole sorry episode left me so disheartened that I did the only thing left to do. I went home, put on one of the massive outfits (oh the comfort!), ate an entire jar of pickled onions and nursed my indigestion through two episodes of one born every minute. 

Here comes number 2…

I vowed that the next time I was pregnant I wasn’t going to stuff my face like I did the first time. I guess I lied. 

See I’d forgotten why I did it the first time – I’m a sick eater. Car sickness, hangovers, seeing something really gross, my body interprets this as a need for huge quantities of food. Since I feel sick from the moment I open my eyes until the moment I go to bed all I do is eat the hell through it. It’s a hunger unlike any other, a bottomless pit, a gnawing ravenous feeling that takes over my mind and causes me to fantasise about foods until I quite literally have to source them, purchase them and devour them. For a day in my 7th week this food was tangerines. I ate 2 bags. I though “jackpot! I’m going to be one of those freak bitches who craves fruit and vegetables”. No. 

The next day it was kitkats and the day after it was cheesy puffs. It’s like they just pop into my head and my brain gets hold of them and plays a little loop of “eat me, eat me, eat me” until I get trance like into the car. I know I should tell my brain who’s boss but frankly, I can’t be bothered feeling sick all day by eating things I don’t really want. 
Today it’s baked potatoes. And that’s what the hungerometer finally settled on in my first pregnancy. I ate hundreds of them. They saw me through til the very end. “Baked potatoes are ok!” I hear you say. Not when you have one for an afternoon snack and 2 for dinner. Today’s were the size of my head. I also used half a tub of anchor spreadable on them. And I have a confession to make. Whilst I was waiting for them to bake I had a hot cross bun (sodden with butter) and I have another confession to make, whilst I was waiting for that to toast, I had a Kitkat and a packet of crisps. Ok I had 2 packs. 
OK, 3. 
I’m a healthy weight when I’m not pregnant and I know (think/hope) I’ll go back to normal afterwards, so for now, I’m just going with it. Tomorrow I am going to the supermarket to buy a sack of potatoes and a vat of butter. Here comes the fatness. 
And a note to any preggers thinking of posting pregnancy “healthy meal updates” with pictures of your slender arms clutching a bowl of kale and fruit: I will cyber bully you.