Nicola’s Story: the 16-week update
Here we are with another instalment from Nicola. She’s suffering from a lot of the “pregnancy crazy” that I did. I also drank loads of milk in pregnancy. When I was little, my dad actually put a lock on the fridge to stop me from drinking all the milk. It took me 24 hours to crack it. As a mommy, I still drink enough milk to float a whale. Give me a tall glass of Organic Skim over champagne any day.
I also remember sliding into my first pair of maternity jeans. Boy, did it feel good. It was the most pleasurable jean-buying experience I’ve ever had, especially as I ended up buying the first pair I tried on. That never happens in real, non-pregnant life! I’m still wearing my maternity jeans now as I wait for all that weight to fall off from breastfeeding (still waiting…). Even so, there’s something about that extra elastic on the waist that I just can’t walk away from…
“Nooooooooooooooooooooo!” I shout from the kitchen. In a panic my Husband replies, “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?”
“I’ve run out of milk!! I need milk!!” I reply.
It started at about 10 weeks and I can’t stop drinking it. I even make the excuse to have cereal, as it’s just a different way to have milk. When my Husband goes to the shop, he rings me before he leaves to check if I need another six pints. I’m like an animal.
Apart from this one craving, I would say that I feel just the same. I keep thinking my bump is developing as it swells throughout the day and buttons need to be released, but, by the following morning, it has gone back down again. This baby is playing with me.
I’m 16 weeks and my midwife appointment is today. With no symptoms I am looking forward to a bit of reassurance that my baby is still okay. It’s a long time between scans and I’m not what you can call a patient person. Am I meant to just be getting on with my life as if nothing has changed?
First thing on the agenda though is a massage! I am meeting a very good friend in town as we have had massages booked for about two months. This has been a long time coming.
We walk into the salon and I get to go first, woohoo! She starts by giving me a form to fill in and I say, “Oooh, I should tell you I’m pregnant, so I’ll probably just go for the Indian head massage <big smile>.” Her smile turns to a sympathetic head tilt with a feel-sorry-for-you face and she replies, “I’m sorry. We can’t treat you then”.
Sitting on my hands and trying not to clutch at her ankles and beg her to reconsider, I try to remain calm and ask why? Apparently she needs ‘special’ training and she wasn’t sure what oils, she was allowed to use. She suggests I re-book for AFTER I’ve had the baby. Yeah, I’m sure I’ll have loads of time to come for a massage once the baby is here.
I use all my power to stop myself from having a stiff bodied tantrum right there in their reception area and break the news to my friend who is waiting for her go and she just smiles and says, “Let’s go shopping then.”
I want to look for maternity jeans. My normal jeans feel like they are really pushing into my belly. We walk into a shop and I see a pair I like. My friend says she wants to try something on, too, so we head for the cubicles.
I look at the jeans trying to figure them out. There’s a huge bit of floppy material coming out the top of them, which looks hideous. Thinking they obviously know what they are talking about, I pull the jeans on and all my friend hears from the cubicle next to her is a big, long “Ahhhhh.” Someone has sent me these magical jeans from heaven and I feel good.
I don’t want to take them off, but have visions of the security guard wrestling me to the ground, sales assistants on each leg, trying to remove them, so reluctantly I take them off. On leaving the changing room I check something very important with the lady on the door, “Once I’ve paid for these, can I come back in and put them on and then leave the shop?” She smiles and says, “Of course, you can”.
Rocking my new jeans, letting it all hang out and after a little wander around (mainly in a sweet shop), we head back to the car park and I start my journey to the midwife appointment. I’m bursting for the toilet and as soon as I arrive in the doctor’s surgery I run for the WC. Oh, the joys of pregnancy.
My name is called and I’m greeted with a very smiley midwife (good start). The first thing she asks me is: “Have you got your urine sample?” (Bad start). I now know that I need to provide one before every appointment, oops.
Blood pressure – check. Weight – check. Height – check. Baby’s heartbeat – now we are talking. She puts a small amount of cold gel very low down on my belly, presses down on the little speaker thing and then I hear what I can only describe as a horse galloping. She looks at me and says, “That’s your baby’s heartbeat” and I double check by saying “Are you sure it’s not mine?”
I leave feeling all reassured and looking forward to the next time I see our baby at the 20-week scan. I ring my Husband and tell him how it went and I tell him about the heartbeat. He’s so glad everything is still OK and then something registers, “You got to hear the heartbeat?” he asks. “Yes!?!” I reply. I can feel a strop coming on and then, “This is really unfair. You get to hear and feel everything, I don’t get to feel anything!!”
He is quickly reminded where this baby has to come out of and we are back on even ground.
Nicola, I suggest you record the heartbeat on your iPhone next time. That’s what we used to do and we’d listen to it like it was the latest X-Factor single.
I’m afraid to say that the masseuse was right to refuse treatment. You can book specialist pregnancy massages, which are lovely, but you need to avoid oils like Clary Sage. I had one preggo massage per trimester at Gina Conway salons in Wimbledon. They had special pillows to accommodate my growing bump and it was absolute heaven. I also highly recommend getting a mobile reflexologist to come to your house and rub your tootsies.
As ever we look forward to further tales from Nicola and bump!