Last week was one of landmarks. We had our twenty-week scan and I turned, older. What a wonderful birthday present to have a tour of our baby’s organs! Like fascinated tourists we watched agog as our sonographer guided us on a bewilderingly detailed journey. ‘Here you can see the baby’s stomach, here’s the liver and on your right you’ll catch a glimpse of your baby’s spine. And if you just follow me, I’ll take you to the baby’s brain. Keep up. Photographs and novelty hats will be available in the gift shop.’ What looked crystal clear to our escort looked like a vortex of ever changing shapes to me, until we encountered the face and there upon it, a little up turned button nose that bought a lump so quickly to my throat. Saint Luke and I squeezed hands – he had spotted it too, and it was just perfect.
So I ate cake for two this birthday, at breakfast time. Officially ‘eating for two’ is not allowed in The Rulebook, which is made up of a small library of baby books stipulating precisely what I must do to be a ‘good mother’. It’s really rather overwhelming. What if that book is out of date? What if the authoress is a sadist? What if I don’t want to be a ‘yummy mummy’? What happens if I take the wrong piece of advice or god-forbid I find my own way?! Does that make me a bad mother? And let’s face it, a bad mother is the worse kind of bad human being. Did Gengis Khan have an inept mother? Did Hitler’s mum eat brie? Donald Trump’s mother almost definitely slept on her back. Oh god, why did I eat that second piece of cake?! Shame on me!
And so, it is my solemn responsibility to the future of humankind to read all the advice I can garner and increase my Rulebook knowledge of Do’s and Don’ts. Mostly Don’ts.
Don’t sleep on your back or on your right hand side. Don’t eat the delicious cheese. Don’t forget to make a birth plan. Don’t make a birth plan because you’ll only have to abandon it. Don’t do too much. Don’t do too little. Don’t spend too much money on maternity clothes. Don’t pretend you didn’t just eat that piece of sushi. Don’t lose your place on the NCT course. Don’t panic about the agonising, excruciating, mind blowing pain of labour. Don’t panic!
Much like Beyonce’s private jet, I appear to be harbouring a diva. My ever-changing vessel no longer belongs to me, or at least I’m no longer centre stage of this rig. And to add another layer of complexity, I’ve got Lucian Lupus lingering in the wings, like the curse that waits to crash Cinderella’s party. And so the list of Don’ts gets longer. Don’t forget to take your pills. Don’t stay up late because you’ll suffer the next day. Don’t ease your aches in a hot bath. Don’t do pregnancy yoga because your body isn’t strong enough. Don’t panic about the return of crippling Lupus symptoms bought on by the ‘trauma’ of childbirth. Don’t panic that the doctor used the word ‘trauma’, perhaps he said chicken korma? Yes I’ll have mine mild, thanks. But whatever you do, don’t panic!
But I am panicking. And you know what, it really doesn’t suit me! It’s a most unrecognisable feeling. I didn’t panic when I forgot to bring a calculator to my maths GCSE – not when I fell asleep off stage during a performance of Twelfth Night and was late for my soliloquy. I didn’t even panic when I got lost up a mountain in the Yorkshire Dales during a snowstorm wearing a summer dress and a denim jacket. I just don’t panic, so what on earth has got into me?!
Someone clever once said, ‘panicking is like a rocking chair – it gives you something to do but gets you nowhere’. I feel much the same about The Rulebook – it’s giving me something to read at night as I exercise my pelvic floor, but it’s getting me nowhere! (and I’d much prefer to be watching Master Chef.)
So excuse me as I lay my baby books to rest for a while. I appreciate all their pearls of wisdom, I really do and I don’t profess to know it all, or any of it in fact – you see, I’ve never danced at this disco before. But for the sake of my sanity and as a birthday present to myself, I’m taking Fleetwood Mac’s advice above all others, and I’m going my own way. Admittedly that thought petrifies me, but I’m hoping that once I see that little upturned button nose, I’ll know just what to do.
I’ll have my cake and I’ll eat it, twice.