Becky Boop

An honest shopping list for pregnant women 4,000 packets of Rennies Those nose strips that stop you snoring (they don’t) Lactulose (a laxative. Apols) Gaviscon (gross – see previous post) Liquid Silk (‘perineal massage’ is recommended from 36 weeks. Lol.) Palmer’s ‘bump butter’ (repulsively named, I always think – reminds me of what you might do to prepare a turkey crown. Will it prevent stretch marks? I doubt it, but it smells nice) Big maternity pads (this is for after, but I bought some to prepare by adding witch hazel and lavender oil. I then put them in the freezer. Big mistake. All frozen items taste like lavender. Had to jettison the ice cream.) Any/all fancy toiletries (bathing is one of the few Truly Great Pleasures of pregnancy) Things you do not need Any form of muff maintenance equipment. You literally cannot see it.

Yesterday was my due date, which came and went just like every other day this month (calm,  chilly, full of crosswords, toast and a vague sense of impatience). The closest parallel I can make is that this is a lot like waiting to hear back from a job interview, except I suppose in this case you know you’re guaranteed to hear something, eventually. What I hadn’t realised is that in late pregnancy you start to feel some of the sensations that will accompany actual labour – contractions, cramps, a sore back, nausea, etc etc etc. So I’ve spent quite a lot of the last few days assuming every twinge is the beginning of something, and then realising I am wrong. I am trying, as advised by every man and his dog, to enjoy the peace and quiet which I will “never enjoy ever again in my whole life”, etc etc, but it’s hard not to be impatient and a bit twitchy. Still, as someone wise on the internet pointed out, it’s important to remember you won’t be pregnant forever. And yesterday Brighto

So here I am, patiently awaiting the arrival of my daughter, keeping myself amused (ish) by reading about Trump’s inauguration fallout and his ‘alternative facts’ campaign. In another tab I have been scrolling through a New York Times picture piece about all the women’s marches that took place around the world on Saturday, alongside a Zoe Williams comment examining Piers Morgan’s recent tweet about “rabid feminists” and the need for a ‘Men’s March’ to redress the balance. Considering the current tone of Western journalism, and the many and varied faces of our ugly politics, is easy to become pretty jaded, pretty quickly, when considering the future my daughter will face. Alongside the general guilt I feel about adding to the world’s population crisis, and ignoring the advice of David Attenborough not to add to the disaster, there are many more gender-specific reasons to be fearful. It can seem that we are moving backwards in so many ways, whether it be in the realm of reproductive

Last October, my family and I went on holiday to New Orleans. It was planned as a celebration of my jazz-loving dad turning 70, and the aim was to consume as much food, music, and booze as possible in a week. The whole gang, including ‘extended boys’, were going to be there, we found an amazing Air B’nB in Bywater, and the trip was going to fall over Hallowe’en weekend. All told, it had the makings of an epic family holiday. Obviously, I booked this before I realised I was pregnant…although as I write I realise that actually I’m not sure that  is  necessarily obvious. Maybe I would still have gone even if I had known – I think I definitely would have felt a bit of a prat for saying no on the basis of weighing a stone more than usual and not being able to have a drink. In any case, we went. And some aspects of it were tough. The problem with being pregnant is that it is only you. As my mum said when I came home early with her one night, exhausted and jealous of the others going o