This week has been slightly taxing. My rainy Monday morning began with an awkward scrape in my car [Ludmila the Communist, a rather jolly little red C1] – entirely my fault – wrong lane, little sideways collision with a fancy Audi estate. This is my second minor accident since being preggers; I’m sure my spacial awareness is fucked, as is my insurance premium. So I’m now driving a fancy Corsa whilst Ludmila is in the hospital. Add to this complexities concerning solicitors and the impending house move [come on people, patience has never been my strong point!] – I really need to vent.
Firstly; I’m continually amused at how my bulging belly is an apparent magnet to wandering male hands. Yes, I’m preggers yes there’s a baby wriggling around inside it, and no, I haven’t just been a greedy piggy and eaten all the pies [althought perhaps ….] BUT that doesn’t give you an automatic right to fondle my uterus. Weirdos.
Secondly, if I choose to enjoy a small glass of wine or half a Guinness once a week, this is not an open invite to condemn me as selfish or borderline alcoholic. Indeed, your opinion was really not required at all. I’m quite able to read and understand respected reports [and by that I DON’T mean the evils of google or mumsnet] myself, and can assure you my baby is not going to be born hankering after the Chardonnay minutes after I’ve expelled it from my vagina.
Thirdly, a colleague actually questioned my request for an instant coffee this week “you shouldn’t be having caffeine when pregnant” HE said. I had to show him the NHS guidelines on caffeine before I was finally able to get the fucking coffee down my throat.
I think I’ll stop there.
I’m not ill, I’m pregnant. Women have been doing it for quite a long time, and way before the introduction of google. How oh how did our grandparents cope [and manage to prodce a generation much hardier than todays]