Baby: blue

Lots of things to tell you. First, you’re a boy. Yes, I know you know you’re a boy but I didn’t until last week’s scan. And oh boy, what a boy: there was no mistaking your, er, ‘equipment’ when the nice lady with the scanner took a look. Your dad was proud.

I imagine you’re reading this and squirming. Don’t worry, love, by the time you read this you should be well used to me embarrassing you. I’ll still be giving you big squashy kisses, ruffling your hair and telling you I love you when you’re 15. Preferably in front of your mates.

So that’s one thing.

You have also been subjected to all sorts of arts events since you’ve been snoozing in my womb. First up was a trip to London: Antony Gormley’s exhibition at the Hayward (life-size bronze casts of the artists dotting the London skyline, immobile, stoic men standing on rooftops and balconies as far as the eye could see), followed by Gyorgy Ligeti and Steve Reich from the London Sinfonietta (Reich’s Sextet being possibly the best piece of live music I have ever seen or heard, though I was so tired at the end of it I cried – the joys of being preggaz).

And then there’s been Monkey: Journey to the West, a circus-opera-musical-acrobatic combo that made me clap my hands in delight; and Ojos de Brujo, a Spanish band who managed to combine flamenco, Brazilian dancers, hip-hop, drum-playing, traditional tunes, hand-clapping and god only knows what else into a triumphant red-blooded Latin musical stew. Ah, baby, you would have loved it – in fact, judging by the flutters in my belly, you did.

So that’s another.

The flipside to this pregnancy lark is just how hormonal you’ve been making me feel. I can handle the fact that I can’t see my feet; that my belly-button is now monstrously stretched out of shape; my boobs hanging down like slightly sore udders; the fact that my arse will never be quite as pert and lovely again. All that is fine. It’s just that the hormones have been making me feel a little bit blue of late: not quite so happy-go-lucky, bouncing-on-my-toes as normal. Work is petering out, too, a consequence of clients calculating a) I’m not quite so on the ball as I was and b) I won’t be around in a few months’ time. The blues and clients: not a great combination.

All this will pass, I know. And all this will be worth it. I know that too.

The upside is that I have absolutely no qualms about stating my mind, telling people off (drunks, ‘youth’ on buses having a crafty fag on the back seat, badly-behaved clients etc.). I’ve become fearless. So start quaking in your amniotic boots, baby: your ma will truck no nonsense from you when you hit your ‘difficult’ teenage years. Even if she does ruffle your hair and tell you she loves you.