I am sat on my sofa eating pepperoni pizza for lunch, with sunshine streaming in through the living room blinds and a feeling of happy-happy-happiness all through me. This is the pizza, no doubt; it is also the sunshine; and it is definitely the fact that I just came back from my first midwife’s appointment and had a thrilling time.
Not that the appointment itself was anything exciting. My midwife came into the waiting room to get me and rather charmingly handed me a plastic drinking cup and asked me to go procure her a urine sample before she’d even asked my name. I didn’t think urine sample requests were suitable for the hearing of an entire roomful of sick people, but what do I know? I’d come prepared, and hadn’t had a single toilet break all morning. My little bladder was crying, and was most relieved afterwards.
Once I’d gone upstairs rather shamefacedly holding my cup, there was a lot of filling-in of forms, during which I denied having all manner of congenital defects and infections, and then she measured my height and weight. I was slightly underweight, apparently, which may nominally be a bad thing, but does give me free reign to eat pizza, so hurrah for that. Finally the piece de resistance was depriving me of about half my blood volume for testing. I staggered back up the hill clutching my bulging envelope full of ‘SO, YOU’RE PREGNANT’ documentation with the easy-to-read title facing the main road, and was so iron-deprived I didn’t even realise till afterwards that this might blow my little secret to everyone who happened to be passing in a car.
So, nothing unexpected. The best bit was that she spent the whole time acting as though I were pregnant, even booking me some scans and throwing around words like ‘birthing pool’, which means I actually am. Obviously the positive pregnancy tests and the exhaustion and extreme aversion to rice cakes were pretty good clues, but without really telling a lot of people and with no bump to speak of, it’s hard to believe it’s really happening. Well, it is.
I am fairly freaked out by the insanely detailed, colour-photographed breastfeeding booklet they included in my envelope – the over-sized boobs of strange women are not what I want to see, ever – but come September I will doubtless be studying it with great attention.
The best thing I learned today is that TJ has grown himself a tongue. Rad.