At almost seven months into my second pregnancy, I'm angry, I've eaten far too much cake and I'm now oh-too-aware that no part of my body is actually my own anymore.
During my first pregnancy, I took baths, read actual ‘books’ (I know - what are they?), did yoga, spent weekends planning nursery colour schemes and cooed over the tiny-ness of the tiny clothes and teeny toys whilst floating around in kaftans.
This time around, however, my toddler - having already left my vagina like a badly assembled hammock - has taken full ownership of any accessible area of skin and/or hair she can do mild damage to, including the removal of several small but concerning chunks of nipple. And every other human person, including those in front of me in the checkout queue in Waitrose, has ‘bump-rubbing’ rights, apparently.
Metaphorically speaking, your womb becomes public property the moment you announce your first uterus-tenant. Now you're onto the second it’s far worse - the advice, the questions, the assumptions, the patronising glances from those women who are able to manage lipgloss even when it's not their birthday. Even I'm bored on my responses: ‘Yes, I'm sure it's not twins… but that joke is so hilarious and original I nearly gave birth RIGHT HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET… and do you know? It hadn't occurred to me that two children might be slightly more work than one, but thank you so much for highlighting that - are you free for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs too because you are A BLAST!’
The joy, excitement about the unknown and blind optimism of my first pregnancy are a long and distant memory - now it's just restless leg syndrome and a big fat dose of reality all the way.
I don't think I've actually brushed my hair this month, let alone managed a lengthy soak in the tub. And the idea of any physical exercise after wrestling a potty-training 2-year-old in a mermaid costume round Debenhams for an hour is a joke.
And as far as teeny, tiny cuteness goes? Well, last week I picked the crusty bits off some slightly yellowing muslins and babygros at the back of the wardrobe, and used about twelve packets of baby wipes to get the carseat back to an acceptable standard for humans to breath near.
Frankly, I'm so busy running around after my miniature ninja poo-wizard, (she curls off magical toddler logs which sometimes remain hidden for days - quite a skill), I barely remember I'm pregnant until I go to stand up too quickly and my womb says ‘hell no, lady’, and thumps me and my cankles back down to earth.
Yes, I think it’s fair to say that my second baby-growing-journey has none of the magic and mystique of my first - and I am counting down the days until my new baby arrives and I can finally get on with those beautiful first few weeks of projectile shit, sleep deprivation and split nipples.
So, good luck to any second time mums-to-be reading this - this time around, it really is just you, your dubiously stained leggings and the well-meaning supermarket bump-gropers.