By PIA CAREEDY
There is a curious stage about halfway through a pregnancy. Somewhere in the middle, after the vomit train drops you off outside Trimester 1, but before you board the panic bus of Trimester 3.
You’ve made it through the first nauseating months in a headspin of disbelief, Disneyland level excitement, and worry. Lots of worry.
We’re really having a BABY / God I’m getting fat / Everything smells like garlic / Are there any good pregnancy Apps? / Mountain Buggy vs Maclarens / Col-o-strum….that is a weird word / Must write a will.
You’re prepared for the upcoming opening of T3: The Final Countdown. Wise women who’ve gone before you warn of nausea’s return, with the panic set to 11. You anticipate it will go something like this:
Oh holy hell a baby is ACTUALLY coming / Please just don’t get any bigger / Too many bibs…I have purchased too many bibs / This house is a hazard for soft skulls, let’s move / Get it out get it out get it out.
But for now, around the halfway mark, there is a period of calm. This magical stage is akin to the eye of the storm. An eerie stillness rolls in and you make peace with all that has passed, and whatever will be.
In movie-making, they call it the Golden Hour. As the sun moves below the horizon, light diffuses and washes everything on earth in a glorious pink glow.
Shadows disappear, skyscrapers twinkle, and the world is flushed with beauty.
Directors wait with camera poised to capture the momentary flash of Mother Nature’s silk knickers, knowing the visual power of what they get on film in those golden minutes will transform their entire story.
The scene is set for once in a lifetime romance (see: the permanent sunset in Serendipity) or haunting surrealism (see: Full Metal Jacket. Really see it, it’s very good).
In this magic moment of baby incubating, you feel Photoshopped. Like yourself, but better.
First of all, you look just splendid. Sure, things are bigger….all that buttered fruit toast had to go somewhere. Plus, you kind of grunt when pulling on boots now. And if you drop a lipstick on the floor in a public bathroom it’s a real toss up whether to write it off or attempt The Lunge and risk tearing your pants.
But overall, you’re a plump little apricot of expectant loveliness. Hair is magnificent in body and shine.
You rub oil into the bump before bed and think it looks pretty darn perfect, just as it is. You really need some proper maternity clothes at last, and spend a joyful afternoon buying a few swishy tops and the most expensive chunky cardigan you’ll ever own from Seed.
Nothing annoys you, and it’s funny, but you’re not so irritable all of a sudden. Since you got pregnant, people have had a strange habit of mentioning your appearance before they mentioned anything else, and GOD, it bugged you a week ago.