Baby Bump

I have, as the title so effortlessly gave away, a baby bump.

However, according to the books, those creatures that dictate my baby's growth, my hormonal changes, my physical contortions, state that it isn't a baby bump at all, but fluid retention because of my enlarged uterus.

Gee. Doesn't that make an already spiralling to all new lows of unattractiveness pregnant lady just feel so warm inside?

My mum proudly pointed out my protrusion yesterday and I immediately reeled at her comments, worried because I shouldn't even be showing yet, according to the naked body chart of yet another smug mum-to-be with its little evil description beneath.

My SP's sister had an unfortunate incident with one of these books, in the end throwing it in the bin triumphantly after attempting, and failing, to live by its dictatorial regime. There's one thing my mum's continually told me is that the baby hasn't read the book. So when she told me, and also told me to take all knowledge, anecdotes, stories, advice and suggestions that people will willingly lay on with trowels as soon as you are pregnant and, to an even greater degree, once the baby has been born, I was determined to take on board their knowledge, file it efficiently and then continue to follow mine and J's own parenting strategy.

It worked with Newf (to a point: who needs a dog who can come to recall and doesn't slobber over babies and young children's faces - to their excitement/horror/abject terror - anyway).

The problem being: I am a born worrier. I am also constantly concerned, and absorbing, of other people's opinions.

Those two things combined offer an often soul destroying, depressing, uncontrolled set of emotions. Add that to the pregnancy hormones and we're cooking up something worthy of a Roald Dahl name that does strange things to grannies.

I have made a pact with myself that I need to control this before the baby is born. I knew it was coming, the opinions, the idealistic routines, the exceedingly high expectations I set myself, and will not achieve because it takes two to tango and the baby will not be particularly inclined to appease my own personal concerns and worries.

Luckily J, on the other hand, is confident, self assured, calm, practical, pragmatic and generally the Alka Seltzer to my emotional burnings. Otherwise this poor baby would be lumbered with absorbing it's mother's numerous unattractive personality nuances and neurosis. With J, it has a chance of some balance at least.

But I wasn't really prepared for the rules and regulations dictated by pregnancy within these books that I was gearing up to challenge once the baby was here. This week you will, the baby will. Some of the charts are a little more forgiving, with some mays and probablys sprinkled in to ease the worry of a concerned pregnant lady.

I have been absorbing pregnancy anecdotes, questioning friends insistently and, occasionally, strangers on their trimesters, my most recent question, tinged with desperation, aching with worry, 'when did you start to show?'

So, this baby bump. My mum looked at me, her eyes sparkling, telling me that it was perfectly normal. Those that love me, that are close to me, that have seen this new extrusion of my flesh that has appeared within this last week and see the baby within.

However, those that don't know I implant, mostly I imagine unnecessarily, the opinion that I'm letting myself go a little, the thickening of the waist attributed to too many pies. I don't really have that many sympathetic clothes and those that do make me look either like a chav or a hippy (thank god for the empire line being in fashion this year, I was slightly concerned we might all be adorned with lyrca hotpants for the summer, with unpredictable trends and my complete lack of fashion awareness).

And myself, what do I see? I see flesh-covered liquid and gas. That's it.

I know what it is. My belly is a fraud for my poor digestive system, something that has never been on my side when it comes to appearance, my dinner sitting nicely in the large round bowl of my stomach after a meal while it debates the act of digestion for several hours.

The baby is there, deep within me, protected by my inefficient inner workings, hiding behind an ever swelling mass of liquid and gas.