One of the Mamamia team is pregnant. And she’s been keeping it a secret until now …
For more than 30 weeks I’ve been keeping a secret.
I’m pregnant. With child. Knocked up. Got a bun in the oven. Up the duff. In the pudding club. On stork watch. Preggers. In the family way. That’s right, in less than 2 months I’m due to have another baby and I couldn’t be, well, more terrified. Not just of how I’m going to cope with having three children under five (Well hello, Mr Gin Bottle) but of this pregnancy itself.
Which is precisely why I haven’t told people – most people – until now.
For me, being pregnant is something of a rollercoaster ride with more stomach-churning drops than exhilarating peaks. It is – for the most part – a white-knuckle experience where faith is my seatbelt and hope, the safety rail. And I’ve struggled in this pregnancy – more so than any other – to allow myself to believe that it’s real. That at the end of it I will have a healthy, happy, very much alive baby in my arms that I get to take home.
And I suspect that feeling of being scared to let yourself relax is probably true for anybody who has lost a pregnancy. Lost a child.
Of course it wasn’t always that way.
The first time I fell pregnant my girlfriends Katie and Nic stood with me in the kitchen as together we stared at that just-peed-on pregnancy stick as though we were willing Makybe Diva over the line at the Melbourne Cup. Come on! Come on!
When the faintest second line started to form we whooped and cheered like Lotto winners and I was planning nurseries and buying copies of Possum Magic and sticking cushions up my jumper and, well, eating for two before the test had even dried. Back then, in 2006, as Brad and I joyfully told people I was pregnant (PREGNANT! WOOO!) it just never even dawned on me that I’d be ‘one of those people’ who would ever suffer from a miscarriage.