Whether it was planned like D Day, the aftermath of tequila or a weak moment with Barry White, the invasion of your eggs by an over zealous sperm will be a turning point in your life as you knew it. As the strains of ‘Jackpot!” can be heard echoing from the furthest reaches of your fallopian tube, your body will begin to metamorphosis into the very shape you have eaten next to nothing for years to avoid.
As the nausea takes hold and commands hot and cold running biscuits, the egg and your ankles will grow. Like a trucker after a hunger strike, you will eat. Wherever, whenever and whatever takes your fancy. As your skin stretches in protest and your backside inflates, you may struggle to squeeze into the shower cubicle. You will feel like you are hot housing a watermelon and that melon is playing pogo on your bladder.
If you read this and think “oh no, not me“, then think again. This is the process, the side effects are not optional extras and unfortunately for the majority, blooming and glowing equates to bloating and over heating. And as for those urban myths about women who stay a size 8 till the delivery suite and don’t have a clue till the waters break. Only one word. How?
Then just when the end seems unreachable and you have resorted to cornering your petrified Daddy with a manic and desperate glint in your eye, nature eventually steps in and ups the ante. Much like a dodgy curry, (also eaten the previous night) what goes in must come out, and your bundle of joy will start making tracks to the birth canal.
Needless to say the exit is not quite on par with the entry, regardless of whether you decide to out do Mother Nature or pump yourself with the entire contents of the pharmaceutical cupboard. Every fibre of your being will simultaneously go into overload and meltdown, and you will, along with every other reproducing female in history declare the automatic ownership of the ovaries to be an unfair responsibility. Whale music will haunt you forever and your dignity will go out the same door that a group of eager young students have just filed in through, to watch and take notes.
Then, whether you are sliced and diced or squatting and pushing, what comes next will shock you to your hormonal core. That melon that you have carried and prodded and talked to for all these months finally materialises … as a baby.
You will now lay awake at night, worrying about the disappearing ozone, feel toe curling remorse for the terrible treatment of your own mother and a deep sympathy for those with triplets. Only now will you have an appreciation for uninterrupted sleep, tiny handbags and hipster jeans.
So there you are, one day an intelligent human being with a sense of togetherness, in command of your life and hairbrush and with shoes that match your bag. The next it will be all you can do to string two decipherable words together. You will act and react like a sleep deprived idiot, you will look like a Womble and the only thing in your wardrobe that will match will be the regurgitated breast milk on your baggy t-shirt and slippers.
And yes, all of this is absolutely normal.