Does my bump look big in this?

July 2003
And so it begins...my pregnancy announcement

DEAR ALL, I would like to confess now that my attempts to be a good girl and follow the Rosemary Conley diet have failed miserably.For the past eight weeks, all thoughts of calorie counting, low fat eating have flown out the window in favour of a new diet.

This new diet involves eating whatever takes my fancy, whenever it takes my fancy and hoping against hope that it doesn't come back up again.And, in the same spirit, I have resigned myself to the sobering fact that over the next six months I will put on a minimum of two stone and fill out beyond all natural proportions.I do have a good excuse though, as I am expecting my first baby. There, I've said it. So now those people who have been harrassing me about where all the talk of diets and weight loss went, and who have wondered how somehow I've managed to start expanding at a scary rate can finally relax and stop worrying that I've let down a league of dieters the world over.

I found out I was pregnant exactly one week after buying myself a new selection of clothes, in a smaller size. Feeling all congratulatory after losing close to a stone, I was dreaming of a summer in figure hugging jeans, fitted T-shirts and gravity defying boots.One week later I was returning the beautiful, but now hopelessly impractical items and checking out the latest offers on draw-string trousers, flat shoes and long, flowing (ie. fat hiding) tops.In fact although just at this early three month stage, with a miniscule bump that really only I know is there (I just look as if I have been eating morning, noon and night in Pizza Hut), I know that I'm not destined to be one of the trendy pregnant women with a neat wee bump, who can happily show it off over the top of her hipster jeans, or wear flimsy vest tops that accentuate the natural changes of a pregnant lady's body.No, I'm going to be one of those ladies who looks like she lives on jelly.

Just as I can feel my waist thicken, I can also feel my thighs, ankles, hips and bum thicken too.Bumps and lumpsI'm not a person who has a bump, I have bumps (plural) and lumps (a plenty).Of course when I first took a test and discovered I was pregnant I immediately decided that I would keep attending aerobics class and eating as fat free a diet as possible.But then, I did not reckon on the horrendous morning sickness and exhaustion and other nasty wee scares early pregnancy tends to throw at you.As a result I have spent the better part of the last eight weeks, lying on my sofa in a semi comatose state eating toast, Branston Pickle sandwiches, crisps and whatever else takes my fancy from day to day. Be it chips and cheese, or a butter skimmed scone, my body seems not to care that really I don't want to be one of those women who ends her pregnancy needing to take up two full seats to herself on the bus and breaking seats in cafes.

In a no win situation that few people warn about before you actually fall pregnant, you find that should you eat you feel sick, but should you starve yourself you feel even worse.Women out there the world over have a lot to answer for. I wonder why you are so eager to start spilling your guts about the horrors of labour as soon as a woman utters those immortal ""I'm pregnant"" words and yet you stay quiet about the horrors of heart burn, sickness, exhaustion, excess wind etc etc. (I would go into more details, but this a family paper!)?Official secretsI have a sneaking suspicion that you are all forced to sign an official secrets act at the moment of delivery so that you do not put other women off procreating and thus keeping the human race going!Finding out that I you are to become a mother is both an exhilerating and terrifying experience.First of all the thought that I'm sure runs through every expectant mother's head is that lovely as it is to be carrying a wee baby, there will be a day in the not too distant future when that wee baby will want to make his or her entrance into the world. Chances are that entrance will not be painless.

Secondly, its dawns on you with startling reality that life will never be the same again. Himself may want to celebrate with a bottle of fizz, I ended up celebrating with a bottle of Schloer.After work drinks have become a thing of the past. It's a small mercy that my drinking buddy is also expecting her first baby, as I doubt I would have been able to hide my disgust as she walked into the Del on a Thursday evening!Strange as it sounds, it also dawned on that now I would never get the chance to appear on 'Big Brother'. It's not that I have any ambition to be on the show, but now, as a mum, I just won't have the chance again.I doubt that I will also have the chance to ever wear those boot cut jeans again, but then time, and time alone, will tell.But it is exciting to think that there is a new life inside me. One that will see the world with new, innocent eyes. One that will have no preconceptions, no prejudices and one that will rely on me totally.It's reassuring to also realise that this wee life won't care one jot if I'm big, small or middling, as long I love it. Maybe I should learn from his or her example.

Pretty in Pink?

October 2003
Feeling the pinch...

THE LADETTE culture is something I have never really been able to get my head around.For the past few years, we women have been told that it's cool, trendy and with it to hang up our handbags, forsake our heels and swap our cold glasses of Chardonnay for a couple of pints, a packet of fags and the ability to fart and burp as loud as any man.

I have always been somewhat of a girlie girl. Pink was my favourite colour. Sindy and Barbie were my favourite childhood toys and wherever possible from the age of about 18 onwards shoes had to have a regulation heel height of at least two inches in height, preferably more.If a shoe seemed impossibly high, terribly uncomfortable but had the virtue of making my ankles look slim and sexy then I would gladly forsake the comfort of trainers.

I'll admit to also being one of those woman who cosmetic companies dream about. Change the packaging of a luscious lipstick, tell me a cream will keep away fine lines and wrinkles or add glitter to anything (bath bombs, body rubs, moisturisers, lipsticks, eye shadows, hair gel....) and I'm sold. One of my favourite past times has always been to wander around Boots or Superdrug checking out the latest shade in eye shadow, the latest perfumes, and the latest in sumptuous bath treats guaranteed to make a nightly soak a luxurious treat to be savoured.That is one of the great joys of being a woman, and Lord knows there aren't that many. We can pamper ourselves without feeling guilty and a relaxing soak in the bath is considered more of a necessity to our beauty regime than a quick wash to clear the dirt and grime of the day.

If it's fluffy, silky, glittery or shiny then I'm your gal. Think Charlotte from Sex and the City, think Cat Deeley, think Miss Piggy if you want, but in my opinion a woman should be (budget, wardrobe and having decent shops in your home town permitting) feminine.Maybe I'm hopelessly old fashioned, but women drinking pints (I know they are cheaper), do not look very elegant. Women smoking like trains, roaring and shouting and generally, as my granny would say, making a show of themselves are embarrassing to us all. And women who turn away from the joys of shoe shopping obviously have some part of their brain missing!

I have frequently said that a drunk woman is one of the most unappealing creatures in the world. Not that, in my pre-pregnancy state, I didn't enjoy a drink or two myself, but for the most part I managed to avoid being loud, annoying and never once did I throw up in public.Some exponents of the ladette culture would no doubt argue that I was letting the side down, and all these years have been conforming to male ideals of what women should be like.I, on the other hand, would simply argue that I had more pride in myself than to willingly make a complete gawk of myself in public.

I have always been aware that while I may be able to drink so much that I fail to remember what I did the night before, most of the rest of the world will wake up the next morning with their memory of any shameful behaviour. Wall flowersI'm not saying we should all be gentle little wall flowers who bow and curtsy, sip sherry from those dinky little glasses Emily Bishop likes or make sure our skirts always reach to our knees at the very least, but there is something about the modern ladette culture that I just don't like.Certainly we women should be seen and heard but do we really want the world to see us as loud, hard drinking, ballsy creatures who you wouldn't want to run into on a dark night.Surely we don't have to drink as hard as men, or dress like them for the world to accept that we are their equals? In fact, I would argue that in many cases we are their superiors. No woman would ever have dreamt up the comb-over or would contemplate leaving the house in the morning without a spray of deodorant (certain taxi drivers in this city should take note!).

I just think men should be men, and women should be women. You can be just as strong and confident in a pair of Faith stilettos, as you can in combat trousers with a masculine crew cut.Perhaps I'm just feeling the pinch more as the months progress and the notion of pointy shoes, figure hugging clothes and a night out with that cold glass of chardonnay become a a dim and distant memory, replaced by sensible (boring) shoes, voluminous clothes and that haggard look that only pregnant women and Derry taxi drivers at the end of a Friday night shift seem to be able to carry off.How I long to take my purple boots out of storage, and put my jeans on again. I would love to follow the style lead of the Sex and the City girls, but sadly that funky retro 80s or 20s look just does not translate well into maternity wear.As the shops fill with glamorous, sparkly, glittery clothes for autumn and winter, I have found myself staring with open mouthed jealousy thinking that if I even dared to dress myself in something like that I would look more like a Christmas bauble than Cat Deeley.

So instead, I implore you, the women of the North West, to dress up, curl your hair and buy the highest most impractical but stunningly beautiful shoes you can find and, in my name, for the next four months at least, remember that you are ladies.

Christmas is coming (and I am getting fat)

December 2003
My first real nativity...

I'M GETTING very excited about Christmas. Ashamed as I am to admit it, especially as I have spent much of the last few months berating the early arrival of the festive season in our shops and on our televisions, I'm now acting like a child waiting for the arrival of Santa.

In less than five weeks the big day itself will be upon us, and for some reason this year I am just busting to put up my tree and deck my halls with boughs of holly (whatever boughs are).I have a certain smug sense of satisfaction that, with the exception of something for Daddy-in-law (for whom I never know what to buy), the majority of my presents are bought and patiently waiting for me to assault them with my rather dodgy present wrapping skills.I have trailed the shops looking at delicate Christmas angels, sparkling stars and twinkling lights with the innocence and excitement of a child.

I swear, I've almost been tempted to send a letter off to Santa and my inner child has been merrily singing ""Jingle Bells"" on a continuous loop for the past week. (Of course, being pregnant means that the term inner child takes on a whole new meaning, but I am talking about the part of me that remembers the excitement and happiness of childhood celebrations.)In previous years I have steadfastly refused to get into the Christmas spirit before the arrival of December. I tutted and muttered under my breath at parents who trailed their wains on to Santa's knee at the start of November, and I avoided shops that displayed their Christmas wares alongside their Halloween goodies.But this year I have 'oohed' and 'aahed' with the best of them as the singing Santas have emerged from their dusty cupboards to take their place in shop windows and on Wednesday I was wide eyed with joy to see the Christmas lights glittering throughout the city. (Except when it came to the bridge.

I have said it before and will say it again, those new lights that wrap around the lamp posts do not look half as good as the old strings of lights which made the bridge look like a giant Christmas tree.)I love seeing the Christmas advertisements on the TV, and so far none of them (with the possible exception for those offering hampers for 2004 festive season!) have made me want to throw something at the screen in a Scrooge like rage.Only fear of being carted off in the white coats has stopped me from knocking on the doors of people who have already bedecked their houses in life-size Santas and those gorgeous icicle lights and singing in my less than melodic tones that I wish them a merry Christmas.Stress and strainOf course, not everyone shares my joy, (which may or may not be related to the fact that the start of the new year marks the start of my maternity leave and brings me one step closer to meeting my darling son or daughter). I know for many, Christmas is a highly pressurised time.

Parents not only have to cope with an increased workload as the year comes to an end, but also the pressure of buying the biggest, best and latest toys which, let's face facts here, they don't even get to take the credit for.Anyone who works in a shop, or deals with the lovely general public, will undoubtedly be so rushed off their feet in the coming weeks that finding the time to hit the town, to make lists and organise a day of sheer hedonism for themselves and those close to them will become their very Christmas miracle.My calmness surrounding the festive season could be because I'm now officially very pregnant and people will be understanding if I don't go the whole hog this year. People of course keep telling me to ""keep my money for the baby,"" which eases the financial pressure just a little. I have also been able to use my increasing size to justify shopping for almost everything from the comfort of my home computer, and only venturing into the town to look at the lights.

I have not yet been caught up in the trauma of a mile long queue to pay for a pair of socks, or fought with an old lady over the last Fimble in the toy shop. I can pick and choose when to wander into the town, and kind hearted people take look at my bulging tummy and allow me ahead of them in the queue. (No doubt, however, this spirit of good will to all men and expectant women will descend into a ""everyone for themselves"" mentality the closer we get to the big day).For the first time in years I feel as though I can relax and just enjoy the music, the sights, the sounds and feelings of Christmas without getting caught up in the manic rush that can descend on us all.Of course we all know Christmas has become too commercialised, and that we seem to have forgotten that it is, in fact, a religious occasion. We are all aware that the majority of children are more excited about the arrival of Santa Claus than the birthday of the baby Jesus.

We all know that we spend too much money, and many of us count the cost as our January pay cheques are spoken for even before they arrive. And there are many out there who would pour scorn on the madness that descends once a year across the length and breadth of the city.But, Scrooge tendencies aside, we should just try to enjoy the celebration that is the festive season, when we can all act like children again if only for a few days.

From Here to Maternity

March 2004

A month in...and still in shock

IF I have learned one thing in the last two months of maternity leave its that the statement that you forget the pain of childbirth the moment your baby is put into your arms is a lie.Sure, the memory dulls. But I can't say, four weeks after the birth of my first baby, that I've forgotten it. I've come to appreciate that without the pain, there is no gain, but there is enough still going on in my body (which I won't go into in a family newspaper!) to make me aware that the experience of childbirth stings a little!

My son Joseph was born on February 3, exactly 44 minutes before his due date and almost 26 hours after my waters broke. That in itself was an experience I doubt I will forget. Having been admitted to hospital the day before with all the symptoms of pre-eclampsia I had just been settling down for a relaxing night, and was listening to Brian Kennedy sing of his desire to be back in Carrickfergus when "pop"….and the indignity began.I have to say though, the antenatal ward at our local hospital has much of the spirit of a POW camp about it. The women all know they aren't getting out with battling against the odds and there was a certain death row humour in my ward as we waited it out overnight to see who would be the next to progress to the labour ward. (We spent a lot of the night competing over who had dilated the most and whose pains were coming at the most regular intervals. All we would have needed to make the experience a proper party was a bottle of vodka and some streamers!)In the end it was me who left our merry bunch first, but I fear it was only because I literally begged, cried and screamed in the end!

This was not my finest hour. (Nor was my mad grappling for the gas and air in the labour ward, but I'll leave the details of the actual delivery for another day).To suddenly (or not so suddenly in my case….you do recall it took 26 hours!!) become a mother is a life changing and somewhat daunting moment. I looked at my son, every part of him the double of his daddy, and felt a wave of love I had never experience before (or was it relief that it was all over?) but I also had that feeling of "what do we do now?".Yes, I had changed nappies before (but not wee boy nappies, with the ever present risk you can get sprayed in the face), and yes, I had given plenty of "bobos" to babies in the past, but not to my baby (where I would worry that he was taking too much/ too little/ not burping/ poohing/ peeing enough), and as for the trauma of trying to bath a 6lb 9oz baby with a nurse inspecting your every move….well needless to say the wee man nearly drowned!Overnight I had gone from being a woman who loved her sleep to someone who will probably never sleep a full night again. As we took our son home, we slept (and I use the phrase loosely) with the lights on, the door open and, I think, quite possibly one eye open all night, listening for every squeak, fart and gurgle (and I'm not just talking about Joseph's daddy here!).While we have made valiant efforts to claim back some part of our lives for ourselves I'm ashamed to say that on more than occasion we have attempted to toast our son's arrival and gone to bed leaving our glasses of wine untouched.

Our conversations have moved on from being about world affairs, fine wines and nice places to dine out to being about the colour, consistency and frequency of our son's bowel movements and we have both come to value the dummy as our most favourite fashion accessory.I can no longer take a shower as and when I want, leave the house without bringing most of its contents with me, put on any clothes that don't have elasticated waist bands or bargain on getting through the day without a puddle of spew landing on my top/ trousers/ in my hair or down the front of my bra (that's such a lovely experience!). Nor can I have a conversation with any other mother without the words "stitches", "pain" and "stretch marks" being dropped in hither and thither, but strangely I don't care. (In fact myself and another new mum this week compared stretch marks at the bus stop at the bottom of the Racecourse Road!)You see, four weeks in, something wonderful is also starting to happen.

My son, my gorgeous, precious baby boy, is starting to smile! And this week, on Monday, he giggled. All gummy mouthed and bright eyed and beautiful and suddenly I found myself thinking that the pain hadn't been so bad after all, and the sleep deprivation is actually quite fun and the nappies….well, the nappies still stink but it can't all be plain sailing!

Hi Ho, Hi Ho It's off to work we go....

August 2004
Back to work, back to reality....

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's back to work I goWHO SAID the modern working mother can't have it all? I'm here to prove those doubters wrong. I'm a mammy. I'm sat here at work and by golly, I have it all.Headache? Yep. Stretchmarks? I have quite a few. Guilt complex at leaving my baby? Oh yes. A deep and satisfying sense of completion at having returned to the world of work? Erm, well.....no comment!I'll admit I'm shocked, very shocked. I always pictured myself as a classic example of a modern career woman. Having followed a rather predictable path through life by forsaking a wild and crazy youth to work my not so wee bum off to get a good degree and appropriate qualifications to become a journalist, I never quite imagined that one day I could feel quite so uncomfortable returning to a career it had been my ambition to follow.Believing myself to be quite a staunch feminist (we're not talking shaved head and dungarees here, but you get the picture), I always scoffed at women who felt bad leaving their offspring with someone else while they returned to the world of work.After all, we woman have fought tooth and nail for some semblance of equality. Why should we have to give up the careers we have fought long and hard for, just because we choose to become mothers? Having umpteen friends with children, I always loved spending time with the little 'uns, but even more than that I loved handing them back at the end of the day after a few hours of goo-ing and gah-ing and making other baby noises. The thought that I could actually tolerate, never mind enjoy, more than a few hours in the company of baby incapable of doing anything for themselves other than spewing was alien to me.Even heavily pregnant and already quite in love with my wee baby, I always thought by the time August came around I would be clawing at the walls to get back to work and kick my brain back into gear.Quality timeYes, a firm believer in quality time. I often scoffed at my dear mammy who said I may just find it hard to leave my child and combine both work with motherhood.This is the noughties. This generation of woman can do anything. We can have it all. We are supposed to thrive on the rush and fuss of getting our wains up and ready, ourselves preened and perfected and out the door before the rush hour begins.We are, it has been alleged, easily able to switch off from family life as soon as we hit the office floor and suddenly transform ourselves from the slattern with baby food in her hair to a professional lady, who never once slips up and says "Ta Ta" to her boss, or gets an urge to phone her childminder once every five minutes.I thought, somewhat foolishly, that I would view my return to work as a blessed relief. Finally I could switch my brain back on. (There really is only so much of Trisha a woman can take). I would get to meet lots of interesting people again, start writing again, spend an entire eight hour period without being puked on or assaulted with the smell of a putrid nappy.But then I never bargained for the fact that there seems to be a significant number of people, dubbed the "super mammies" by me, out there who's life purpose seems to be heaping mountains of guilt on mammies who choose to, or have to, return to work.Stay at home mumsYou know who I'm talking about here. These are the ladies who refuse to give their babies dummies and who breast-feed until junior is two. They are ladies who give up their careers to stay at home, baking home made bread and making organic purees for junior's tea. Generally they also have a bit of money behind them which allows them, unlike us mere mortals, to be in a financial position to give up work, but that does not stop the holier than thou attitude many have.You see, I've got disapproving glances and tuts when I've said I'm going back to work. The news has been filled over the summer months with reports of how leaving a child with a carer will inevitably damage them because all children under the age of three need their mammies.Indeed such super mammies would have us believe that going back to work will inevitably lead our children to start drinking on street corners and cursing at adults before they reach the age of 10.These mammies don't seem to realise that even the most ambitious, career driven woman can't help but have her heart melt a little when she becomes a mother. They don't seem to realise that many of us would love the chance to spend more time with our children, having already realised that babies don't stay wee for long.Consequently, they don't realise that we really don't need them piling their notions of what makes a perfect parent on top of the guilt we are already feeling at not being there for every cough, smile, burp and giggle.I, like countless other working mothers out there, am operating on guilt factor ten, even though I know that the person who is watching my son at the moment (thanks Auntie, I love you!) has 100 times more patience with children than I do, and even though I know that without my income my wain would find himself and his mammy and daddy living in a card board box under the bridge.So I would love, for now, to relax and enjoy the fact I'm back doing the job I love so much. I would love to find the strength in me to tell the super mammies to take a run and jump. I would love for everyone to see how happy and well adjusted my little boy is, even though, (shock, horror) his mammy isn't always there to watch him.In the absence of that, I would just like everyone out there to realise that there is more to being a good mammy than being there 24/7.