I'M WADDLING down Henry Street when it hits me, this urgent need to fill a bag for the hospital. I try to fight it. I tell myself this is the irrational urge of an unhinged, hormonal pregnant lady and give myself a stern talking to. There are still around 12 weeks to go and what about your philosophy of not counting your chickens before they are well and truly hatched and do you really want to be like all those people who had their buggies picked out a few days after the blue line appeared on the test? No way. Well then. Desist. It appears, however, that there are forces stronger than me in operation. I waddle on, lower back protesting, until I find myself in an unfamiliar shop staring numbly at a wall of nappies, writes Roisin Ingle.
I’ve been observing the women on the internet forums for weeks – yes I’m a despicable voyeur, not wanting to join in but addicted to knowing what other pregnant women are talking about. I’m torn between putting my head in the sand about the imminent happenings and joining this community of people who say things like, “lol think I have a boxing team in my belly! DH is afraid to touch me for fear of getting knocked out!!!! lol”.
It takes a while to work out that DH or DP means Dear Husband or Dear Partner, DS and DD stand for Dear Son and Dear Daughter, and “lol” means “laugh out loud” in this intimate internet lexicon. It’s a world of acronyms where everything is said through this parent-friendly shorthand. Shy and trying not to look as though I am interested, I hover like the new girl at the door.
I used to go to YouTube to watch comedy clips or music videos. Now I go there to watch women who have made videos of their trusted parenting and baby tips. Their husbands tend to be the ones holding the camera. (Don’t the daddies have parenting tips too?) I am enthralled by one woman in particular who demonstrates how to make your own eco-friendly baby wipes from kitchen roll, mineral oil, liquid soap and water. I am not convinced they are as potent as your traditional wipes which, in my limited experience, have the power to remove all stains including nail varnish from walls (very handy when babysitting), which does make me question the wisdom of putting them near a baby’s bottom but not enough to make me want to fashion them myself.
Standing staring at the nappy wall, I go into automatic pilot. I randomly pluck items from shelves. Nappies, natch. Industrial strength baby wipes, which makes me feel guilty, but only slightly. A couple of cotton swaddle blankets with handy swaddling instructions printed on the label – it’s as easy as 1, 2, 3, according to the guide.
I pile up vests and sleepsuits and babygros and hats and suddenly the bag is groaning and I stop only because I can’t carry any more. At the counter the smiling woman says, “Twins?” and I can’t understand how she knows, but she says gently, “The two of everything kind of gave it away?” Then all the sales assistants join in to congratulate me and recommend other things I might need, but I feel suddenly panicked, hand over more money than I needed to spend and waddle off in a sweat.
At home, fondling the crisp cotton of my tiny purchases for the third time, I accept the fact that I am now officially obsessed with this pregnancy. I thought for a while I was going to escape. I was determined to be different. I would just be another woman having a baby, no big deal, and it wouldn’t seep into every corner of my psyche. I would still be able to think about loads of other things such as work and Obama and the ceasefire in the Middle East and Lady GaGa and Slumdog Millionaire.
The truth is I have a one-track mind. Every conversation with my boyfriend begins, “Do you know what’s mad about this pregnancy thing?” as he adopts the patient, faux fascinated expression of one who knows his life depends on appearing interested. He thinks I don’t notice that he still has one eye trained on Ronnie O’Sullivan. If it was anyone except Ronnie, he’d have a dead arm.
But seriously, do you know what’s mad about this pregnancy thing? When the little people inside you start making their presence felt. When you feel your inner organs being pummelled. When you wake up with the distinct feeling that somebody has their delicate foot jammed up into your ribs and you turn around to tell the person who is 50 per cent responsible for this state of affairs and you realise he is about as intrigued as he is when you talk about your mad pregnancy dreams, even the ones where you are chasing Pat Kenny and the cast of Fair City around the RTÉ canteen and they are all dressed in babygros.
Alone with my pregnancy thoughts, I get out the swaddle blanket and try to do the 1, 2, 3 with our toy monkey, aka Monkeh, who I reckon is the size of quite a large baby. It’s a disaster. The baby doesn’t co-operate, there’s arms and legs swinging everywhere and it’s not so much a swaddle as a big fat Monkeh mess.
As I throw the bundle across the room, I suddenly realise what it is that drives these women to adopt names like “Mamawithtwokitties” online to chat for hours about bath seats or side-by-side versus front-and-back buggies. It’s the knowledge that only other pregnant people will happily listen to endless pregnancy trivia.
So if you can’t beat ’em . . . “Hi, mamas to be, Twingle here, lol is anybody else having trouble with the old perineal massage, DP didn’t even know where it was when I brought it up, lol!!!”
Maybe not.
roisin@irishtimes.com