Mum Face: The Memoir of a Woman who Gained a Baby and Lost Her Sh*t. Grace Timothy

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      CHAPTER THREE

       THE THIRD TRIMESTER/ACCEPTANCE

       There’s no denying it now – I’m huge. I’m fully repurposed. It’s damned obvious there’s a baby on its way. I’m a MUM and everyone knows it …

      I was under the distinct impression that a baby gestated for nine months. There was that film starring Hugh Grant, wasn’t there? And everyone says ‘nine months’ a lot, like it’s the absolute maximum time you’ll be pregnant for. But as I counted backwards on my fingers to the moment we think Rich impregnated me, I realise nine months is up and I’m still gestating. I ask the midwife, Look, babe, are we nearly done here? Has someone made a cock-up with the calculations? Because I’m pretty sure we should be entering the labour phase now. And she explained it was more like 40 weeks. THAT’S 10 MONTHS. More lies.

      The grim realities of the final trimester – stretch marks, piles, breathlessness, aching joints – make it impossible to ignore the changes. Your body is totally foreign, you’re staring down the coming weeks of what feels like the end of your career, and of course, the birth. The brain changes again – you must nest, clean, furnish your home with the buggies, cots and digital thermometers, all of which suddenly seem full of potential hazards, each decision weightier than before. Your priorities are already shifting. Your old self can still be heard – Don’t do it, don’t do it! Remember, we’re not going to change! – but it’s all you can do not to bulk buy nappies and dribble bibs. It was then I started talking about myself in the past tense a lot.

      Growing a grandchild

      The other thing that was worrying me a bit was the ownership of the baby. Namely, the two grandmothers awaiting THEIR new baby. I was fiercely independent and actually very selfish with my time. But suddenly it wasn’t about me anymore. HOLD UP, WHAT?! There was a lot of talk about them not making plans around our due date, so they could be there (UM, unlikely! You are strictly NFI to this cervical hoedown and that’s a definite). Then there were the various debates over who we would spend Christmas with, from both sides. Now there was a child added to the mix, I could no longer decide for myself where we’d go and for how long – we were merely there to present her to either side. It was the first encroachment on my selfishness, I think. And I realised I was about to bring something to the table that everyone wanted a piece of: BABY.*

      ‘Why don’t we do Christmas alone, just the three of us?’ I suggested to Rich when his mum first enquired, even though I was still a whole month away from even having the baby.

      ‘We can’t do that!’ He was clearly up for sharing. Typical youngest-of-three. ‘I want her to be around her cousins and her grandparents. Christmases should be huge for her!’

      I sulked.

      I’d read somewhere that it was wise to lock everyone out for the first two weeks, and I agreed this was a sensible idea, based solely on the fact I don’t like lots of people around and I planned on bingeing on series 4–6 of Dexter. But nobody agreed. My mother-in-law said she’d never heard of such a thing, and my mum refused to return her key. And now I get it – it’s their grandchild – but at the time, I was just thinking of ME. I do not want a house full of people when I’ve just given birth! I want time to adjust away from judging eyes, I want time to suss it all out and see if I develop postnatal depression before I have to think about entertaining guests. What, will I breastfeed and then make a bloody pot of tea for everyone?! Hoover when I should be SEEING TO THE NEEDS OF MY NEWBORN BABY?!

      But from then on it would be a battle of wills between me and the elders, who felt they had part-ownership of the baby. Not just in terms of the time they would claim, but also in terms of furnishings, apparently. Who will buy the pram, who will knit a blanket, who will provide second-hand monitors that already smell like electrical fires? My mum had already offered to buy us a new cot and changing station as a house-warming gift, and I’d agreed happily when I saw how much the bloody things cost. But then it was a bunfight in reverse. A car seat, baby bath and Moses basket were delivered within weeks of each other. I dumped them all in the shed in a fit of pique. If shopping was the only joy I’d get while my haemorrhoids were raging, I’d bloody well do it myself. You know, once the baby had arrived so as not to tempt fate, or whatever. Plus, we’d kept our mouths shut about СКАЧАТЬ