I have reached the magical third trimester mark of my first pregnancy, and it feels like a major milestone, after spending the past six months feeling only “slightly pregnant” and not as pregnant as all the other pregnant people I’ve crossed paths with.

My mother telephones to let me know that today’s the day in my pregnancy where she gave birth to my sister via emergency caesarian 18 years ago. 27 weeks and three days, and there she was, a tiny little rabbit-shaped... thing… with tubes attached and the lights of the incubator bearing down on her as we gazed through the glass in wonderment at her very existence. This little reminder comes as a huge shock to me, as I realise how horribly unprepared I’d be if I – touch wood – were also forced into early labour today.


I discuss this with a friend on MSN who gave birth last December six weeks early. “Oh don’t worry,” she says. “It doesn’t matter how unprepared you are because when it happens, you just cope.” Her bloke apparently had to race around like a headless fly for a couple of days, stocking up on nursery essentials, etcetera, but this isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m mentally unprepared. I haven’t been to ante-natal classes so I don’t even know what she means when she mentions “shows” (something icky that can happen before your waters break apparently), I haven’t read the chapters in my books about labour, and I don’t know the first thing about babies, quite frankly, except that they’re insanely demanding and change your life forever, kind of thing.

Which isn’t to say I’m physically prepared either of course – I keep forgetting to take my Elevit tablets, I’m still trying to cram myself into my regular clothes, and the “nursery” (by this I mean the spare room that’s been reserved for baby things) is filled with gifts from family who haven’t yet been thanked. There are blankets and bibs and cute little outfits, all still in their plastic with the tags attached (in case I decide I change my mind and want to take the whole lot back). But they’re all just sort of thrown in there, and I keep the door closed to keep the cat out, and I don’t have the first clue what to do about decorating it – this is a mental shift I’m yet to make (and I rather like being able to blame the cat for having to keep the door closed on it all). I don’t even know if I need a capsule for the car and a car seat, or whether I can get something that converts from one thing to another, or maybe an all-in-one pram-capsule-carseat-bassinet te-kitchen sink combo. I don’t know what those bouncy things are called and whether I need one. Where the baby should sleep. What sort of things I’m supposed to have in the house waiting for its arrival. I have four million wraps and rugs and nowhere to put them. Do I need nipple cream? Do I need baby powder? Sorbolene cream? Bottle warmers? Hand wipes? Bum wipes?


So, with the hope that my baby arrives roughly around the time it’s supposed to and not this week, my aim for the following 13 weeks is to hit the books and sign up for classes and try to get myself into some sort of state fit for motherhood. As I write this my baby’s kicking me, as though he or she knows I need a good shove to remind me that The Big Day is looming ever closer and this is one exam I can’t just cram like mad for the night before.