Saturday, 30 April 2016

Things Can Only Get Fatter...*chapter eight*

Chapter Eight:

'Things Can Only Get Fatter'

Every new day brought with it further manifestations of my transmogrifying self!

Ok, at first I didn't mind the weight gain 'cos, as a flat chested size 8 (uk fitting) at that time (late 70's)  the only evidence of any change was in the size of my boobs which morphed into two absolutely amazing orbs of plenty!

Look, if you've been following this blog you'll have been privy to the personal torment my mammary inadequacy has afforded me in the past...not to mention the physical pain of my having to scrub Germolene off my chest with wire wool! (for all those who haven't a clue what I'm going on about... click here and be enlightened ) so, I'm sure you can forgive me my euphoric outbursts of self-appreciation at the splendour of my own twins of rapture!
funny quotes on pregnancy | pregnancy humor :) - BabyCenter:
However, as the pregnancy progressed, my ever growing bump soon outdid the boobs-of-huge for the title of biggest and, as it happens, most repulsive!

Yes, I had rapidly fallen out of love with my new assets the day they turned against me by becoming so super-hyper-sensitive to touch that the very sensation of clothing brushing against them would send me spitting like a hell cat into a frenzy of vile expletives that would make Gordon Ramsey blush!

Oddly, my family claimed not to have noticed any particular change in my behaviour during these

Other annoying developments were swiftly restricting my usually skinny little frame as the months DRAGGED on. Somewhere along the line I had lost the ability to bend down, so anything I was unlucky enough to drop...remained where it had fallen. I suspect that's why my next door neighbour refused to let me hold her baby for a second time.

Ohh, how I loathed the bloated, bulbous, bilious ( yep, I was still the queen of Pukesville!) banshee that I had become. My organic incubator hung over my bits, from the rib cage down, like an over-inflated Space Hopper! Apparently, however, if viewed from the rear you couldn't tell I was pregnant.

I became concious of this one day when, in passing a building site, a chorus of hearty whistles heralded my passage ceasing only when I spun around to deliver a death glare as my overly rounded shaped eclipsed their cement mixer!

Another delightful accompaniment to my enceinte condition came in the form of heartburn, which everyone assured me meant that the child would be blessed with plenty of hair. If this were true, I would be giving birth to the equivalent of Cousin Itt! 

Anyway, in between sitting and suffering in the midst of the Mothers Union at the hospital for anti natal check ups, I'd visit my midwife. She was a no-nonsense, middle aged woman with crazy, wild, grey hair and unusually large hands that were impossible to ignore, for reasons I'm sure you can imagine.

My due date had been and gone and I'd begun to consider that, at this rate, my child would probably be born wearing a school uniform! I was fed up, frustrated, fat and frequently using another F word, mostly when I looked in a mirror.

Having waddled over to the chair in the clinic, I flopped down. I reminded myself of an adult seal slapping its blubbery self on land after dragging its laboured shape from the water.

Sitting there, I waited to see what useless advice the midwife would suggest to induce labour this time . I'd just about managed to scrape myself from the loo after the "castor oil will do the job, trust me" episode! Oh yes, it did the job, alright, just not the job it was supposed to do!

As a means of induction she'd also suggested I went for a night out, got very drunk, ate a curry and then had a heavy sex session. No thanks, that's what got me into this fix in the first place!

Anyway, eventually I was summoned into the consulting room and was greeted by the sight of my midwife brazenly flaunting her unobstructed ability to bend as she folded herself into a yoga position to retrieve a pen from the floor.

And then she threw me off guard by saying...

"So then, have you thought about breast feeding?"

"No. I've thought about gormandising on pickled, red cabbage vinegar and stabbing the next person who asks 'OoOOo are you still here?' with a fork!"

She gave me a half smile before continuing...

"Breast is best for baby, you know?" She committed herself to a full smile now as she waited for my response.

"Look" I began "I need to explain. I have a phobia regarding all things 'nipple and breast' ever since my mother relayed, in GREAT detail, her account of when she breast fed me.

The very thought of the whole suckling process grosses me out! When I was a kid and our class went to the farm on a school trip they had to carry me, unconscious, back to the coach after the 'Milk Your Own Cow' demonstration! So, breast feeding isn't looking likely at the moment!"

"Ahh well, we'll see how you feel when baby comes along. I'm certain you'll change your mind" she coaxed.

"By the time baby DOES come along, it'll be old enough to feed itself!" I whinged! 

It was at that point the door opened and one of the other midwives popped her head in and, taking one look at me, she said...

"OoOOo are you still here?"

Luckily for her, I didn't have a fork with me that day!!

To be continued:

Next Time: Chapter Nine:

'Stand And Deliver'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard