Sunday 3 August 2014

Week 149- red wine, 30 Day Shred and priority seats when not pregnant...

The worst has happened.

I thought getting stitched up and not being able to sit down for the best part of a month when I gave birth to my daughter was bad.
Or having to walk around with cabbage leaves stuffed in my bra to relieve the strain of mastitis.
In fact, having to negotiate with a two-year-old who’s literally thrown herself on the floor of the big Sainsbury’s and is beating the tiles with her fists on a busy Saturday morning seems like a laugh in comparison with this.
I have been mistaken for still being pregnant.
This is like all my worst post-birth nightmares rolled into one.
I bumped into a friend of the family whilst we were travelling up and down the country introducing our new son to relatives.
We greeted each other warmly, and, as she asked me how I was, she touched my stomach. It all happened so quickly that I wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. That was until it was followed up by the head-cocked, ‘How are you getting on?’ question.  
And I realised she clearly thought I was still pregnant.
Obviously word had spread that I was having a baby, but it had not got around that it had actually been born.
We chatted briefly, and to avoid any embarrassment, I brushed right over the imminent birth of my now three-month old son and instead asked about her family.
We said our goodbyes, with her kindly wishing me luck, and then she walked into the pharmacy, where I was just about to buy nappies. But there was no way I could let her realise her mistake by allowing her to see me buying something for a baby. To spare both our blushes, I walked around the block, thinking I’d go to the supermarket instead.
But, as is the way when you try to avoid someone, she had beaten me to it and was already in the Co-op. I made a ‘We should stop meeting like this’ gag, as I looked down at my basket which was, so far, full of red wine and chocolate. Not great for an ‘expectant’ mother.
We parted company again but several minutes later, as I went to join the checkout queue clutching the nappies - proof that I had a child at home - I saw that she was also waiting to pay.
So I hid.
I’m a 35-year old woman, and I found myself squatting in the confectionary aisle to avoid further conversations about being pregnant, when in fact I had the baby 14 weeks ago.
And I had a moment of clarity.
With a heavy heart, I took out the multi-pack of Twirls, replaced them with some Ryvita and thought, right then Jefferson, when you get back to Brighton, you are going to unwrap that copy of ’30 Day Shred’ and dust off those dumbbells that haven’t been used since the impulse Amazon buy, and you will squeeze into your old jeans if it kills you.
Either that or totally milk this situ and start using the priority seats on the bus again.

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