MILFs R Us

So 24 weeks, and it's been a rocky ride back to British soil. Not only has the usual jet leg been compounded by pregnancy, the lead up to the flight was also marred by hormones. The fact is fatigue during and post pregnancy magnifies everything, crafting molehills into mountains. Case in point. On the drive to the airport Mister Green and I had "words", the result of which led to us missing our turnoff on our way to meet my parents for a goodbye-for-now meal at our favourite Italian. In the end, although we were only 20 minutes late and my parents were magnanimous about the whole thing, I burst into tears which seasoned my linguine and did not let up for the duration of the meal... I don't know about you but sobbing like a tantruming toddler in the middle of a packed restau has to rate in the top ten most humiliating experiences (along with the skirt tucked into the underwear thing, though, granted, that has never happened to me -- yet).

Digressing. With reflection, I can see the error of my ways. Back at work after several sleepless nights, I had to call in sick and at last grant myself some much needed slack. After all, a relaxed mother is a relaxed baby according to that frightfully posh matron to the Royals, Betty Parsons. It must happen in all pregnancies, to every woman at some stage in her progression: she ploughs on full steam ahead until, inevitably, her body gives her a stark reminder of the task at hand, e.g. making a little miracle is no small feat! We would do with being gentler, more forgiving on ourselves and on each other, and not just in pregnancy either.

Digressing again... To other women. To each other. The reaction of strangers when commuting to the City this past week caught me off guard now that I have, for want of a better expression, officially "popped". From disdain to sheer contempt -- these are the looks I've been fending off from women, old and young. Where is the empathy? Where is the sisterhood, I beg you. Why such sour lemons? Is it fertility envy? A deep-seated hate of fatness in all its forms? Theories are welcome...

Men are another story, of course. A strange breed they are (admittedly I'll have to get used to this if I am to raise one myself). Their reactions vary from complete oblivion to outright leering with seemingly no in-between. Until now I never understood the pregnant form was so sexually charged, so desirable. The media wouldn't dare broadcast the fact, but it's true. There is no state more feminine, more exalted than that of the heavily expectant woman, so it only figures that she to cannot escape the lusty gaze. Of course this is reassuring in a way. You don't want to cease being attractive to your partner because that would go against nature, but by the same token neither do you expect to be visually groped by Tom, Dick & Co. Maybe I'm being naive. I'll bet there are entire syndicates and URLs devoted to this particular fetish. Mr Green helpfully supplies the term MILF. In which case, darling son, I'm sorry you had to read about your "old lady" being sexualised before you were even down the hatch. How gross and inconsiderate of me to even bring it up. So sorry...

Is that a soother you're toting or are you just happy to see me?

Well, so much for April showers bringing May flowers. The wet damp is keeping me indoors long enough to catch up on overdue baby news. The week we flew to Canada was eventful to say the least. Not only did we have a tour of the maternity ward where I'll be delivering if Mr Green's foot is heavy enough on the accelerator (no worries there, then), the following day it was back to the hospital for the 20-week anomaly scan. A few tense minutes waiting while one woman came out of the darkened ultrasound room in tears. Up until that point I must admit I had been so eager to find out whether Little Green was a he or a she that I hadn't stopped to brace myself against other, potentially devastating possibilities. We arrived for the appointment in such a haste that I'd left my glasses at home and had to watch the monitor through prescription sunglasses like some D-list celebrity. But the sonographer was non-plussed. (I guess he would be, in his line of work. I can't imagine being the day-to-day bearer of such extremely good and extremely bad news. Needless to say, he must get through some boxes of tissues in there...) Fortunately for us the news and the visibility were equally good. It never ceases to amaze me seeing the little being flipping around inside me like a fish. What a marvel modern science is, what an undervalued tour de force! All of the organs were on show, including the ones Mr Green couldn't help but notice. 'Is that what I think it is?' he said, and the sonographer confirmed his suspicions. So my instinct for the past week or so was right on the money. Wow. For the next couple of hours we sat reeling while the realization set in: IT'S A BOY.

I confess to harbouring an initial preference for a girl, if only because -- as I think is the case with most women -- I feel more attuned to what I know and can personally identify with. But shortly thereafter I felt elated about my little boy. How could I not? We were lucky to find out, though. Many hospitals have a staunch policy to refuse, no matter how you beg, to reveal the sex of the baby in case it leads to wilful abortion and infanticide. To think that some cultures still see girls as any less precious than boys truly makes my stomach churn.

But what of Little Green? Would he share our affinity for the natural world and all of its wondrous creatures big and small? Would he be a passionate artist drawing beautiful meaning out of meaninglessness? Or would he be an ambassador trying, in his own small way, to redress the many injustices and cruelties of this world? Whatever he does, whatever he becomes, I love him already, my Jack. (I know it sounds odd, but I can't help but feel like I know him - his Jackness - already, even though his name hasn't yet been 'formally' agreed upon with Mr Green Senior.)

No sooner was Little Green pronounced a 'he' did my mom host a baby shower in the North American tradition. The house was beautifully decorated in blue banners. Friends and family gathered en masse to play silly games, to eat and generally spoiled our bambino with lots of gorgeous soft toys and outfits. At this rate he'll be infinitely better dressed than both his parents. The day was topped off when my friend Josee presented us with the original canvases (see inset) she'd painted for the nursery following our dog theme, ensuring Jack has no choice but to be an animal lover! Another high point: the album my mother put together featuring baby pictures of both Mr Green and I which culminated in photos of us as a couple in love progressing to parents in the making. All I can say is if our love for the baby comes remotely near our love for one another then he will be a truly blessed little man. I only wish it were the case for every new life entering this world...

Some quirky Week 18 facts for you

 By now Little Green measures approx 14cm long, weighs about 200g (7oz) and has:

• fully functional fingers and toes including teensy-weensy nails
• downy foetal hair called lanugo (which Mr Green and I always call languo for some reason, making it sound like a type of pasta. Apparently it means 'ancient wool') that may or may not be there to keep him/her warm
• sex organs even though the nature of these is still are a mystery to mom and dad
• kidneys that wee every 40-45 minutes inside me (charming!)
• an active aerobics routine that involves swinging around the umbilical cord (there's enough room in there, though, so I'm not feeling it yet)
• and... facial expressions (no doubt wincing at the taste of the amniotic fluid since tastebuds are currently forming)

As they say, it's all good. Just don't ask me to explain it to you...

Didn't get a wink Sunday night for giddy exhaustion. Started to get Little Green's room in order. Mr Green did all the muscle work, of course, schlepping the double bed downstairs while I tidied and organised the baby/guest rooms. An artist friend of mine has sweetly offered to produce some canvases for the nursery. She emailed me the sketches and they are gorgeous, so original. Unfortunately I can't upload the sketches here because they are in the wrong format. I can't wait to see the finished product. It's amazing how quickly the room has transformed already. Just by throwing a few soft quilts on our old rocker and piling it with a few pillows, I could already imagine myself there in the quiet hours humming to soothe baby and self. Okay, so for someone who always claimed her maternal clock hadn't audibly ticked, both "hands" have certainly gone into overdrive.

My mother, among other mothers, always vowed motherhood would change me in ways that I couldn't begin to fathom, ways which she herself was at a loss to explain or describe. Although this sort of circular argument which seemed to lack logical foundation in my books (how can you argue or refute a notion someone can't even explain to you?), enraged me at the time, the worst possible scenario has transpired: mother was (yet again) right. Even at this early stage I feel the experience has altered me in some irrevocable way - a softening let's say, rather than an outright mushing.

Impending motherhood gives you a focus, enabling you to take a close, pointed look at what actually matters. It gives you an appreciation (for once) of all that is good within our ever decaying self-absorbed "society". By helping to see the inherent goodness in new life, parenthood also fosters a renewed ability to seek out the same and to recognise it in other human beings, treating this quality as the general rule rather than the exception - great news for the wizened modern cynic I was well on my way to becoming...

Club Med birth, please

Had another appointment this week, this time with a midwife at Pembury, the hospital where I plan to deliver. Unfortunately we weren't yet able to have a tour of the facilities, but apparently there are a few of the conventional all-singing, all-dancing labour rooms (take for that bleeping machines and deeply unflattering tube lighting). There are also a couple of 'homely' rooms at the end of the hall reserved for low-risk, 'normal' pregnancies (take for that dim lighting, potpourri and Barry White). Okay, so not that sort of ambient. Still, the idea of giving birth in an atmosphere more like a boudoir admittedly holds far greater appeal than the surgical slab. In fact, all things considered, this room seems the next best thing to delivering in the comfort of your own home. If (God forbid) anything untoward should happen when labour is well and truly underway then it's just a case of being wheeled down the hall.

Fingers crossed all will remain healthy and (there it is again, that word) normal till the finish line, so I can have a dip in the birthing pool. They almost make it sound like Club Med, but I'm not fooled. The fact that labour is probably the single most violent ordeal the female of the species will undergo -- a natural process that not so long ago occasionally resulted in her own DEATH -- never strays too far from my thoughts. Praise be modern medicine! And yet. And yet I fear we've come full circle to some extent. These days there is all manner of gadgetry and fancy tests you can have to detect (as early as 10 weeks) whether or not your baby is 'defective'. While these screening tests are optional and inconclusive, when I decline on the strength of my low-risk status, each and every midwife I see raises a dubious brow and stares at me like I'm short of a few crucial well-placed marbles.

Just the other day I listened to a radio programme about a woman whose first scan revealed that her foetus was 95% defective and doomed to die in the womb. Rather than focus on the other 5%, medical staff strongly urged the woman to terminate the pregnancy then and there, offering all kinds of support should she choose to abort. When she decided to continue with the pregnancy in spite of the risk, she was virtually shunned by the medical community and beyond. Because she didn't want to terminate, she was utterly alone. There is a happy ending, though: the child did live but with some minor defects (she wouldn't grow taller than 5ft1 or 5ft2). So it does make you wonder.

Of course I pray Little Green will be born healthy and happy but whether he/she does is not in my hands. Even if an abnormality is detected, I wouldn't have the heart to terminate (a euphemism if ever there was one). So screening is a moot point as far as I am concerned. I am not a particularly religious person but neither am I godless either. I have long ago learned that my fate -- and, by extension, the fate of Little Green -- is not for me to decide or to control, try as I might. All I can do is vow to be the best mother I can, whatever path is set out before me by the powers that be.