One of the great paradoxes I’ve discovered in pregnancy is that while I’m supposed to be “making the most” of the time before the baby comes, I just don’t feel like it.
I’ve lost track of how many times someone’s told me “You won’t be going to nightclubs/parties/late night cinema after she’s born.”
Yeah? You seriously think I’m doing that now? SPD has made me kiss standing for long periods of time, let alone dancing, goodbye. I can’t drink – well, I do have the very occasional glass of wine but, really, I’ll likely sip cranberry juice while you down your pints of lager. By 11pm I’d rather curl up in bed with a book than stick around for the next band, thankyouverymuch.
The night out begins with me ransacking my wardrobe to find something that still fits over the epic mass of my breasts without smooshing them together in the horror that is uni-boob.
Five changes later, I’m livid at the lies my clothes are telling me. But this fit just yesterday, I swear! Skirts cease to cover my arse, tops now show off my burgeoning mid-rift, and nothing, nothing, nothing ever buttons up. By the time I’ve gone back to one of the two pairs of jeans that still fit and one of the three maternity tops my mum bought for me, I’m ready for a therapy session, not a trip down the pub.
So, it was with uncertainty that I went with Laurence to London on Saturday for a friend’s 30th. Would it be crowded, would it be late, would I be pathetic? But I was determined to goandhaveagoodtime. And, actually, I did.
It started with getting on to a busy tube and being offered a seat pretty much right away. Then entering the pub and again, someone got up and volunteered their seat. Who knew a little human kindness could go such a long way? We loved catching up with friends and others left early enough for us not to feel like we were spoiling anything by heading off around 11.
I actually think I’m more likely to be up for getting out and about when the baby is in my arms instead of lodged above my sore pelvis. In fact, she’s got a ticket to her first festival this summer. I’ll let you know how that excursion goes.
At the end of Saturday’s night out, I looked at myself in the mirror. I’ve mentioned before that I can’t remember what it feels like not to be pregnant. I said to Laurence: “What if I never stop looking pregnant- even after the baby’s born?” He chuckled at my melodrama and said: “Well then, at least you’ll get a seat in the tube.”