Oh No Psycho

I have always been a bit of an emo. I spent much of my teens addicted to Leonard Cohen and eyeliner whilst energetically projecting a consistent unspoken 'Nobody understands me'. I dutifully learned three guitar chords and howled along in my gloomy bedroom to self-penned (and musically sparse) songs about assorted boys and injustices, pausing only to scream at the occasional fool who dared suggest I might oblige them by emoting quietly so they could watch TV/read/sleep/not punch me.

The intervening years have been largely dedicated to the the slow and painful process of getting over myself and pre-pregnancy I might have been described as a reasonable, sane and moderately nice woman (depends who you ask really). Since the pregnancy hormones invaded and turned my brain inside out I can comfortably cover the entire spectrum of human emotion in an afternoon.

I'm now 14 weeks pregnant and things are a-changing. Interestingly (or very very boringly, depending on your perspective) the nausea and inhuman exhaustion seem to have eased off but the general hysteria is getting worse. My mood ricochets from demonic rage to overwhelming ennui to Disney-esque cheer at the slightest provocation.

On Saturday alone I exploded into tears at a (fictional) old man painfully admitting that he loved his grown-up son in a gravel-voiced, noble sort of fashion, danced on the spot in apoplectic fury at M's wilful misplacement of the dish towels (he put them in the cupboard to the right of the sink when everybody knows they live on the LEFT.) and spent a good 20 minutes on Facebook making up mean things I would say to people with annoying status updates if the boundaries of social convention only allowed. Highlights include: 'Nobody gives a shit about your horoscope except you' and 'Facebook angels are just another reason i don't like you.'


Much of the time I drift about aimlessly in a mist of baby-centric contentment but the rage surfaces without warning and is particularly fond of making an appearance when I am offered well-meaning advice. A very good friend rashly suggested I try mint tea to help the nausea. The very concept of mint tea makes me justifiably angry at the best of times but I had to resist the urge to scream "Why not just drink a cup of boiling toothpaste you hemp-loving fucking hippy??".


I've also fallen into a terrible habit of insisting I don't mind if my betrothed goes out and then ringing him on the hour every hour with tearful accusations of abandonment/apologies/further tearful accusations/further apologies etc. When he comes home he is equally likely to be greeted by flying crockery or a blissed out monologue declaring how much I love him and the baby. A by-product of the constant uncertainty is that I often notice M eyeing me with the hopeful, wary expression one might expect to see on a postman sizing up a gently growling Doberman.

We have had our first scan and everything is healthy and well. Baby has the most exquisite little head and was tumbling around in there like a dancer in a 90's pop video. In two weeks we can have the gender scan which I was CERTAIN I wanted but in a bizarre twist I'm having second thoughts...


Baby now looks like this, except a week and four days bigger.