37 Weeks Pregnant For The Last Time


37 weeks pregnant today. Last baby will come any day now.

Such a mixture of emotions, I can’t even begin to unpack them all.

I will never be pregnant again. Never throw up on the train in front of strangers EVERY morning for months on end again. Never pass out on a Charing Cross platform onto someone’s husband’s lap (sorry!) again. Never spend 6 months scared to have a wee incase I find blood when I wipe. Never worry that every twinge is my baby dying. Never tell my husband that his baby is in my tummy.

Never wear baggy clothes and pretend to be hungover incase someone notices that I am as pale as Skeletor’s granny for 16 weeks, never hold my breath whilst the sonographer searches for a heartbeat, never hold my trousers together with a hair band for ‘one more week’, never feel that first little bit of wind and convince myself that it is the baby moving, never take my children to a scan to see their new baby brother or sister wriggle about on the screen.

Never watch as my boobs turn into comedy melons and my tummy resembles the M25. Never make ‘that’ announcement to friends and family. Never watch their faces fill with joy, shock, horror, amazement, jealously, relief. sadness, smiles. I will never sit in a maternity waiting room, desperate to know if my baby is still alive. Waiting for the sonographer to smile, trying to read her every facial expression. Listening to the description of what she can see. Waiting for the ‘but’. Crossing every cell in my body for luck. Focussing on the bad bits, remembering the horrible bits, telling everyone the good bits.

Never walk like I’ve just got off a rather large horse, never go up the stairs like a octogenarian, never sit down and stand up with comedy sound effects.

I will never shop for teeny tiny clothes, never fold baby socks that look like they’d fit into matchboxes, never stroke my tummy hoping, wishing, praying, begging that my baby will be safe and well. No more sleeping in my husband’s t-shirts and stretching every item of clothing I own. People will stop carrying everything for me, finding me seats and fussing over me. I will become normal again.

I will never lie awake at night, worrying if I can do it. Never confuse wetting myself with my waters breaking. Never tick the days off in my diary – stuck between impatience and wanting just that little bit longer. Never wanting the pains to start and then for every little twinge to stop because it hurts.

Never feel like a princess, a walking miracle, a superhero queen, a weeping mess, the Incredible Hulk, an incompetent marshmallow head and a sleep-walking bag of hormones. All at the same time.

Never feel too weak to reach my own glass next to me, and yet strong enough to push a new life into the world. Never feel that relentless bruising of the arms, legs, knees and bum of my longed for baby careering into my internal organs. Wishing they would stop so I can sleep / eat. Panicking when I haven’t felt them for 5 minutes. Never again lying in the bath, watching some kind of jaws film being played out inside what used to be my tummy.

Never again feeling like I am the most incredible person in the world.

It’s the end of an era. It’s the beginning of an era.

Wish me luck!


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Nancy DeBroka is a professional declutterer.