With Baby McGivern number two making an appearance later this week I thought I would use some of my limited free time to do a quick recap of the last nine months.

It’s clearly no secret that I don’t enjoy this whole pregnancy malarkey but, as usual, if I sit down and really think about it I did realise there were parts that weren’t horrendous – I’m looking at you second trimester.

The Parts I Hated:

An obvious one to kick us off: sickness (and all that comes with it).
Although I was determined to stay out of hospital this time around, the baby had other plans. No matter what combination of liquid I tried it was not for staying down. I finally admitted defeat and was admitted for some fasting and IV fluids.
It’s always a joy.
Again, this sickness lasted from weeks 9-18.
Although this was pretty similar to the first time round, I got a lovely surprise in the third trimester with another bout of dehydration – meaning more fasting and IV fluids.
Thanks for keeping things fresh, body.

The whole hyperemesis debacle was bad enough but throw in looking after a toddler at the same time and you’ve entered a whole new circle of hell.
I will forever be grateful to ‘Despicable Me’ (1&2) for helping to put Bear into a zombie-like trance for 90 minutes so I could lie perfectly still on the sofa – for fear of any movement resulting in a fresh wave of nausea.

Ah who am I kidding? Even when I was feeling better Despicable Me came to my rescue. I may be able to quote every line from that movie but it granted me freedom during the day and I’m not remotely sorry about it.

Connected to the sickness was guilt.
Guilt that I had to keep saying ‘no’ to Bear when he wanted to play and having to rely on Conor to be the main entertainer of the household. He got to be the fun one and I was a miserable lump who lifted her head off the pillow from time to time.

That brings me nicely on to the next part I hated: My husband.

I hated everything about him. His smell (not in a gross bodily order way, just his general aroma), the way he breathed, if he whistled – ESPECIALLY WHEN HE WHISTLED, the fact that he could be the fun one and carry on relatively unaffected and the most cardinal sin of all: when he said ‘we’ were pregnant.
This is a major pet peeve of mine, I could probably write a sizable blog rant about this but I’ll not bore you with it.
To sum it up: no, we are not pregnant I am pregnant. You are just lucky I don’t smother you in your sleep*

*something I may have thought about it from time to time when he was breathing on me.

Next up: The Clicky Noise
I haven’t come across anyone else complaining about this during their gestation period but it’s still driving me crazy.
Every night, without fail, I’m woken up by a clicky noise – yes that’s the medical name…
I don’t know what the hell it is, it just happens when I’m trying to breathe when sleeping.
Every breath in *click*, every breath out *click*  (you get the idea).
And it’s because of this noise I end up spending the rest of the night awake.
After failing to get back to sleep I traipse downstairs and sit on the sofa watching trash tv at 3am; just me and the clicky noise.
Sometimes Mum’s cat keeps me company, which I don’t mind as she’s a good listener – she doesn’t know what the clicky noise is either.

And lastly: Bleugh
I do not look good pregnant. All these glowing ladies that have tiny bumps and energy completely baffle me.
They’re like mythical creatures. I hate them.
I don’t glow, I eat clinically worrying amounts of chocolate and if I didn’t have legitimate reasons to get up in the morning I would spend nine months in bed.
Despite Conor’s best attempts, I rebuke any type of compliment and suspiciously eye him up if he tries to tell me I look beautiful.
I’m a delight to live with during this time, I swear.

There are positive points to this time, no really.

The Parts I Loved:

First Up: Getting to be completely unreasonable 
Not that I would ever admit that I was being unreasonable, but I have found that every whim is granted.
I don’t let the power go to my head (tempting as it is) but I have been making the most of requesting all types of food at any time.
Yes, I’m a walking cliché and I don’t care.
Conor has mostly been sent for fried chicken and chocolate late at night, and God help him if he dares come back with something that was not on the list.
The list is sacred, there is no room for improvisation; I believe he went to four different shops in search of a particular brand of lemonade because he was too scared to return home without it.
If he tried to convince me that I didn’t really need the cheesy toast at 2am, he was swiftly told: “I’m
creating life.”
Poor guy. I love it.

Secondly: Being Looked After
I think I’m a great patient, I suspect others will disagree.
I love nothing more than being told I can go rest because ‘it’s good for the baby’ and then I’m brought toast in bed.
I’m easily pleased.
As we’ve been living in Mum’s while our house is getting work done, the opportunity to rest is even more frequent.
There’s nothing like coming home and being looked after by your Mum.
I get washing and cooking done for me, it’s wonderful. She also leaves a duvet out for me for when I inevitably have to get up and lie on the sofa in the middle of the night.

This swiftly brings me on to the next part I loved: My Husband.
See? I’m not all that bad.
The late night food runs, holding my hair back while I got sick, the late night conversations when he tries to get me to calm down about the clicky noise, his excitement at the thought of having another baby and telling me I look beautiful every single day – even the days when I literally look grey and

feel like I’m the size of a house.
He’s been pretty damn great, despite being up against a raving lunatic.

And finally: Kicks.
There is nothing more amazing in this world that being punched and kicked constantly by an overactive bump.
Compared to Bear, this baby has been ridiculously active at any given time.
I think it’s his way of keeping my worry levels down to a minimum.
There’s been noticeably less dashes to the assessment unit because he’s always ‘there’.
Even when I complain about the constant nudging preventing me from getting a decent night’s sleep, I live for these movements.

All being well, I will finally get to meet this new baby in four days time. Four days, Christ.
I’d better make the most of the food runs and daytime naps before I have to be held accountable for my diet and sleeping schedule.

How rubbish.