The first person I told
The first person I told I was pregnant? Apart from my slightly shell-shocked husband (by phone, him being 1,000 miles away on a Royal Navy ship and likely to remain there until I had swelled to unrecognisable proportions).
My new netball team. Which technically makes it more than one person.
And by email chain too. How very digital.
Had to tell them before the next game though, so they could get a replacement in time. Never even got to play in a winning match. And managed to defy the very purpose of joining in the first place, by putting on weight in two weeks.
Can I blame that on the little collection of cells or is it too small yet? What is it even called at this stage…? Can I call it ‘it’? Maybe in years to come I’ll thank the child for preserving my knees.
First game after 25 years of little or no sporting activity really took its toll. I’m sure the aptly-named Underdogs can manage without their latest recruit, who really was too short to play Goal Defence anyway. Everyone was the same height back in Primary School, dammit.
The dilemma of whether to tell my mum of my new-found status as mother-in-waiting, who I’m supposed to visit in Ireland next weekend.
Good thing about telling her: it’s the news she’s been wanting for ages and it would give her something to get excited about.
Bad thing about telling her (and anyone else): what if it all goes wrong?
What if something happens and I have to un-tell them. It’s not so easy to take back.
Another bad thing about telling her: she might just tell everyone in Ireland.
Decision made. Tell her.
Paradigms of delight. Talk of buying a pair of little dungarees.
Told to “take it easy” and “stop all that painting around the house.”
Not to even think about getting on a plane bound for Ireland, or anywhere else for that matter.
“But I’m not even two months pregnant yet, mum.”
“It doesn’t matter! It’s BAD FOR THE BABY!” OK, then.
Final words: “Don’t wear tight trousers.”
Wise words indeed…