Sceptimum

One sceptical mother (of two)

Spitting mad

They warned me about the boobs. They warned me about the nausea. They warned me about the fatigue, and increased appetite, and the heightening of my sense of smell to the point where walking past people wearing cheap perfume is an exercise in restraining myself from shrieking, slapping them and then spraying them with a hose.

Image from GreenGypsies on Etsy - http://www.etsy.com/shop/GreenGypsies

Drool signs. Not just applicable to dogs, apparently.

In fact they warned me about a whole bunch of things (vomiting, heartburn, flatulence, food cravings, headaches, dizziness,  fainting, frequent urination, drooling, and more than I ever needed to know about vaginal discharge, thanks) pretty much all of which I have thankfully managed to avoid. Nothing like spending your days dribbling, belching, farting and throwing up to give you that much-mentioned “expectant glow”.

But they didn’t warn me about the worst bit of being pregnant – the endless badly-spelled new-age horseshit wankology that goes with it. It’s all over the doctor’s surgeries, and the pregnancy magazines, and the websites and the forums and the guides.

There are the usual standbys, so shite there’s no point even getting annoyed about them: chiropractors,  homeopaths and iridologists, spiritual healers and twats with magnets shilling their expensive and ineffective wares.

Some are more practical. I can see the point of massage and even aromatherapy smells nice. But do you really need to spend all that cash when there’s a small child about to arrive? There’s also endless pleas to take up meditation, which seems a little sadistic. I’m not convinced developing a reliance on a need for silence and inner calm is a great idea when you are going to have a newborn in a few months.

Some just go right off into la-la-land when you need them. There are the doulas (birth assistants) who stress they worry about your spiritual needs in labour rather than the fact that you are CURRENTLY FORCING A SMALL HUMAN OUT OF YOUR VAGINA. Or fairly sensible books like What to Expect telling us not to get our ankles rubbed because reflexologists are worried it could bring on labour. (Overdue mothers, frankly, wish it were this fucking easy.)

Others abuse the poor English language in their endless quest to extract money from the wallets of unsure pregnant women. Today I saw a flyer for an alternative pregnancy class with a “wholistic approach”. I can’t tell you how much makes me want to slap them.

I can cope with the nausea. I can cope with enormo-boobs of doom, and the fact that my pre-natal vitamins make me want to hurl them right back up every morning, and the constant urge to eat. I can even cope with dribbling, fainting and vomiting, if I really have to. I just don’t think I can cope with another 7 months of being chased by alternative therapy suppliers just as I get too fat to run fast. Maybe projectile vomiting on command may be the way to go after all.

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