Quick! Get thee to a midwife!

Yesterday, my partner and I visited my midwife for the first time.

This was the second time I had graced the local health centre with my presence, the first time being when I had just found out I was pregnant, and was something of a total disaster.

The doctor, a young, nervous looking public school type, had stuttered through a number of vague questions and practicalities, skirting around the edges of intimacy and giving a wide birth to anything that I might have deemed relevant or helpful. Even after indicating several times that I couldn't eat any dairy (including eggs) or meat, he still ploughed through his rehearsed list of danger foods.

I did try to interject on numerous occasions to inform him that I wasn't likely to tuck into a raw steak, nor was I about to indulge in mayonnaise littered with uncooked eggs, and I certainly wasn't going to have a big slab of blue vein ridden soft cheese any time soon. But there was no stopping him. He had his list, he was damn well going to say it.

So then came the question: What exercise could I do?

He informed me that I was fine to continue with my normal routine pretty much, listing jogging and swimming as possible favourites. He asked me, almost relaxed in our dialogue by this point, 'What exercise do you do?'

When I told him, his stuttering increased ten fold as he searched for something to steady his clearly wrecked shredded nerves. He clearly was not expecting this small, child-like, innocent looking pregnant woman to tell him she was a pole dancer.

His exercise knowledge on this topic was as poor as I imagine a vicar's might be, and, after watching him floundering wildly for a few moments, I rescued the situation by saying that I probably had a better idea of what that entailed and whether it was suitable or not.

I slipped out of the office, clutching a post-it note stating "congratulations form" that I was to hand over to the lady on reception.

By this point, I was ready to leave. I had followed the instructions on no less than three positive pregnancy tests that had informed me to visit my doctor, I had done so, and I had gained nothing by this point: no enlightenment, no information, no knowledge. He had even informed me, on calculating that I had conceived in early December, that I was due in October. And that was using a pregnancy wheel. Genius. I was not feeling comforted by my experience.

So I subtly passed this post-it note over to the lady on reception, one of a series of severe, middle aged, self important women who patrolled the office like the gates of Mordor. She read the post it aloud. Very loud.

I winced. I debated on telling her, asking her, pleading with her to be a little bit subtle. But I could tell that would probably only encourage her further.

By that point anyway she was part way through her next sentence, directed not at me, more at God and all who fell beneath him on this earth.

"I don't think we have any congratulations forms, [name of other severe middle aged self important woman], do we have any congratulations forms?"

A loud, uncensored discussion ensued between the severe middle aged self important woman, which resulted in phoning a desk 'upstairs' and eventually, finally, after the women interjecting 'congratulations form' into every sentence possible during the age that I was standing nervously, uncomfortably at the desk, a woman hurried down, presenting woman #1 with the hallowed form.

Woman #1 said to woman #2 'it's for this....woman'. I could see her eyes flicker up to me, the pause the size of the grand canyon, the word 'girl' substituted so inelegantly, and under duress, for 'woman'.

I filled in the form, and shuffled home, with a few leaflets, one containing, yet again, all the foods I was forbidden to eat. No meat pate, shellfish or Marlin for me then.

Yesterday, our visit was somewhat less harrowing. My midwife, who, from what I have been able to interpret from other people's experiences, fits the stereotypical mould like a hand in a stiff, yet effective and productive looking glove, disproved of my dietary 'issues', and seemed a little too disappointed that neither mine or my partner's immediate families had anything interesting to contribute to the illness or disease section.

More baby admin. That's basically what it was. 30 minutes of foetal paper work.

I came out with a large brown envelope and instructions to call the hospital for a scan appointment in three weeks. And the knowledge that morning sickness may wear off after 12 weeks, but sometimes it's just there for the whole duration, like an unwanted, irritating, vomit-inducing yet relentlessly enthusiastic sidekick.

Today I have woken up feeling a little lost. Still sick, still lacking the much begged for concentration and personal application to my work, still grumpy, still aching for the love of a cup of tea to return, still riddled with exhaustion, still tied in numerous emotional knots, double bows and the occasional velcro strap.