Not that I have any intention of turning this blog into a whingefest. Consider it more of a public service announcement to all non-mothers out there. There are many myths surrounding both pregnancy and childbirth - i.e. that the second the baby is born you magically "forget" the violent thrashings of labour. Or another personal favourite of mine: that the pregnant woman blooms in her second trimester - her hair turning thick and glossy; her skin radiating good health; her libido soaring, and so on. While I am still praying that the aforementioned aren't just myths propagated by one generation of women to another in order to keep the human race from extinction, I am beginning to have my doubts.
As countless people inquired after my well being, I was starting to think as I rounded the seven-week mark that I might just get through the first trimester unscathed. Imagine my shock and horror then as I emerged last weekend in a Kafkaesque moment only to find that lo and behold, I had become a dog. A beagle perhaps, with those permanently droopy, overtired eyes and a nose like a radar. At the moment I could probably tell you what the neighbours three doors down ate for dinner. And every 30 seconds or so the urge to wee will take me (and WCs aren't nearly as numerous as lampposts, it has to be said). Like a dog, I too will devour anything in sight, having lost the faculty to impose my own limitations.
Sick as a dog... Well, I'm not sure where the expression came from but it fits. The urge to hurl also overcomes me every 30 seconds or so (see above), abating only when I am eating (see above). No wonder dogs doze and generally mope around all day long. Far from being lazy, they are worn out, the poor rascals. Do them a favour, will you, and let them lie.