Its official: I am the most miserable pregnant woman in the universe and at the same time I acknowledge that I’ve no right to be. I am to all intents and purposes, healthy and so is my baby. I’m sorry but these rational facts are not going to stop me from having a rant.
I am suffering from Pelvic Girdle Pain (PGP) as its known which is better than what it used to be called (Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction – which is enough to tip any woman over the edge as it sounds like a sexually transmitted disease and a hereditary gynaecological abnormality all rolled into one.)
It’s uncomfortable and sometimes downright painful and it’s stopping me from going out. I don’t drive, so really, I’m pretty much housebound. All independence gone, just like that. Piff, paff, poof!
It’s a downward spiral from here really. Not going out = never bothering to put on proper clothes or do make up, resulting in feeling very down in the dumps. A large and unwieldy frame means that even the sexy maternity jeans are no longer comfortable; kaftans, leggings and any tent like structure now preferable.
And here comes the killer question on the occasions I do venture out of the house.
(Another reason methinks as to why I have become a hermit seamstress?)
“How long have you got to go?” they ask innocently.
“Not until September the 13th” I say, my heavy sigh tinged with disbelief and my soul in dire need of some comfort and sympathy.
“Oh, not long then” they say cheerfully, grinning from ear to ear.
I draw my cutlass from my tapestry bag and slit their throats. That’ll teach the bastards.
The moral of this story is: ‘Time’ is perceived. In pregnancy it is perceived differently. Like dog years. Do not underestimate the bloodlust of a heavily pregnant woman.