Just call me 'Belle'

"Arghhhh!!!!!! It's huge!"

"Lord save us!"

"We're all gonna die! It will crush us all!"

"What that coming up the stairs? Is it a monster? Is it a MONSTER?!"

No, it was just me, going to see my midwives at the Midwifery Surgery. Apparently for almost 27 weeks (2 days to go) I am huge.

But whose fault is it I ask you? I have been eating healthily, I exercise - mostly, when I am not crippled by groin and back pain - and I drink a lot of water and not much else. So, it can't be my fault, can it?

"Well, your baby is registering extreme on most of the charts so..." I look up at my midwife expectantly but suddenly the phone is more interesting to her than the rest of the conversation. I look at the chart again. Humerus - extreme. Femur - extreme. The rest is gibberish. From my knowledge of biology, I know this means it has long arms and legs. Isn't it possible that baby just looks big because its long self is all scrunched up in there?

"No, right now there is still a lot of space for it to move around." She looks at me with pity.

Right. So, let me get this straight. Not only am I having an unplanned baby, but it turns out it will most likely be the World's Most Giant Baby EVER.

That sound you can hear is my vagina ripping in resignation.

Who am I to disagree?

I had this dream - vivid, as all pregnancy dreams are - in which my baby talked.

It was small, pink and talked. It was able to say "Mum I want some breast milk". It freaked me out even in the dream but I knew that I had to feed him. So I offered my breast expecting somehow to get bitten. I'm not sure why.

And then there was everyone else in the dream. They all wanted my baby. I spent the whole time shielding the baby from harm, trying to hide it from bad people who wanted him because he could talk.

And then I was awake, and I knew what the baby was going to be called all of a sudden. I knew its name, surely as if it had whispered it. And maybe it did whisper it.

So, who am I to disagree?

Oh God. Oh God.

I am horrified. HORRIFIED I tell you.

Disclaimer: If you are single, love shoes and have an extensive shoe collection, stop reading. Now.

You may continue reading if you don't care about shoes because I just have to tell someone.

OK, I accept that my womb will never be inside the cage of my pelvis after this. I accept that I have gained weight. I accept that my mind is no longer as sharp as it used to be and that I lose track of days (I didn't even know today was Tuesday). I accept that I am all kinds of hairy, I can smell things no one can and I keep wanting to clean until things squeak. I accept that I will never experience anything like pregnancy ever in my life.

What I cannot accept - and what I have leant to be true - is that I will NEVER be the same shoe size again! Why?! What will happen to all my lovely shoes?! Do you know how many unworn pairs of shoes I have saved up?

And the worst thing is, one is not advised to splurge until one has had all their children because one does not know what shoe size one might end up with.

My friends, these are scary times. And there are scarier times ahead. What if I end up looking like I borrowed a pair of feet from Bilbo Baggins?

My heart is going to burst

I worry too much about this baby.

I worry that things might go wrong all the time, or that we won't be able to bond, that I will feel nothing when he arrives, or that me not being able to see his features clearly in my mind's eye means I am a bad mother.

I worry about feeding him the right things when he is of age, of using the right soaps to bathe his skin, I worry about the friends he will have and what languages he will learn. But I suppose I worry because I care.

I love this baby. I cannot wait to meet him, to see what he acts like, to find out what he wants to be called. I want to kiss his face and hold his hands and watch him recognise me for the first time or turn towards my voice.

So what if I don't have a belly button any more? They are overrated in adults anyway.

I'll be 6 months on Sunday and by the end of next week, I'll be in third trimester.

Wow.

Now where are those aunties bearing gifts eh?

All the single ladies!

Here are something to be aware of - or of which to be aware.

You know how you see all these adverts with impeccably groomed pregnant women? Or maybe you've seen Mother/Baby catalogues with glossy-haired, pouting women, sporting neat little rounded bumps and standing tall in heels? You know, the ones you just know will be you someday?

You might as well wipe that image off your mind. That will not be you.

First of all, those women are mostly not pregnant. Eh-hen, I've saved you from dashing some wrinkled up sadist with tolotolo neck about £5,000 in therapy sessions to tell you that you are beautiful. You're welcome.

Secondly, unless you have an actual high bridge to your nose - and most Africans do not - you will end up looking like you went a few rounds with Rocky. Your nose will get so big that it will be an affront to anyone glancing at your face.

Thirdly, it takes a long-ass time for your bump to look remotely rounded and nice and like a pregnancy. Until at least the middle of your pregnancy, (unless you invest in some maternity spanx and maybe not even then) you will just look fat. F.A.T.

Case in point. I went to a new hairdresser, first week of September. After grilling me in a sullen manner as to why I chose to come to her (eh, let me digress. See this crazy woman o! You're not happy that I came to your stupid salon?), I informed her that my hairdresser had moved.

"So why y'nat go to 'er then?' She said in her Jamaican accent.

"Well, I live in South East London and I'd have to go to Palmer's Green to get it done. As I'm pregnant the journey will only get harder as time goes by."

"Who pregnant? You? Ya duon look pregnant."

Meaning I just look fat? ARGH! I was depressed going home as she was the third person to make this statement of my four month old bump.

Lastly, on a curious reverse note, you will attract all the freaks and weirdos out there who have a pregnancy fetish. It may be disgusting and will make you want to peel your skin off each time they leer at you but as a silver lining, at least they know you're pregnant and not just fat. More on this later.

But who knows, I could be wrong. You could be different.

Good luck!

I couldn't resist

I saw this and thought, 'Hey, I'm more than halfway there, why don't I just buy something?'

A part of me said 'What if something happens? You'd be stuck with this forever as a horrible reminder' but I told that part of me to 'Rie nsi'. I figured a mouth full of excrement will keep it quiet for a while.

Then I stood in front of the collection and poured a mental libation to the gods: What goes up must surely come down (Ise). Because of this, I must give birth to a live baby since it has already been made (Ise). It will be healthy (Ise). It will be born when it is meant to be born (Ise). There will be no pre-eclampsia (Ise) and I will never need to see an obstetrician (Ise). As all these things will come to pass, I must be prepared (Ami).

I bought it.

Isn't it just the cutest?????

It's alive!

Well, I've always known that but Mango finally felt the baby move yesterday. It was a blessing to watch. His eyes went so wide...

"Oh my God. I felt it. I felt it!"

"Yes baby," I said, trying not to sound like it was a big deal. It was. The little thing has been moving since week 14 but it only just started kicking early this week. Mango had been getting sadder and sadder at not being able to feel anything.

"Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God...." Bless his mango-headed self.

I was touched. Especially considering that I had just been very mean to him earlier. I interrupted him watching one of his favourite shows and asked him to lug a heavy nursing chair outside.

"Come let me kiss you in compensation now."

"No, let me just do this first."

"Baby now," I was feeling guilty. "How long will it ..."

"No! I have to do this first. The sooner I get it done the sooner I can come back and relax." He walked out.

"Fine! But you will pay for that!" And he did.

"The baby is moving," I said a while later, "Come and feel it." I breathed out in short , sharp bursts causing the cushion on my tummy to bob up and down.

"Is it doing that?!" He almost gave himself an injury trying to reach me.

"No," I started laughing.

"That's not fair. That was really, really mean." He looked crushed. I felt even worse.

So I guess it's lucky that in the end he did feel it. A crushed Mango is ....well, a smoothie or a glass of juice to be honest. But you know what I mean.

I am not my hair....or am I?

Apparently I should be growing thick, luxuriant hair on my head at this stage. Having gone through the ickiness of the first trimester I have been looking forward to glossy, shiny dreadlocks which would suddenly reach my bra line.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero.

Why does my own journey always have to be different? I wondered.

Then today I noticed I had grown long, thick, glossy, black hair .... all over my legs! Argh! WTF?

I look like a tuber of yam. It is disgusting. I wouldn't even eat me if I were on display in a market stall. And truth be told, I can't be bothered to shave it all off or use a depilatory cream or anything, it is so tiring. Bending is agony and pulling up my legs to see them is much worse, so for now, the tubers are here to stay.

And they are joined by yam belly as my Linea Nigra - which by the way is not a straight line running down my belly like most women - is hairy. There is this one hair that I have plucked twice which keeps coming back. It feels like ogbo igwe, the metal wire wool sponge used to scour pots. I didn't pluck it neatly the last time. It broke off. Now I am being punished by having this ntutu, needle-like hair poking through the fabric of my clothes and pricking me mercilessly. As if I don't have enough troubles.

So to recap: Yam tuber legs, crooked line down my belly and ntutu, needle-like amosu (witch) hair under my belly button.

It's shaping up to be an interesting weekend. How's yours?

Weighing on my mind

"We've got movement!"

Mango drops his plate and takes a flying leap over the sofa to me. "Where? Where?" I can't feel anything!"

Poor thing. Baby Opioro has been kicking me for the past couple of weeks now but Mango can't feel it yet. I think it's because I'm fat but my mother thinks it's because it is still small. Which is saying a lot because my mother, The Good Doctor, is obsessed by weight - or having healthy weight.

This is what a normal conversation with her sounds like now: "Hello? Is everything OK? I hope you are not putting on too much weight because it will be difficult later on....vegetables? fruits? You should tell your sister to try and cut down as well. You should see some of the women I treat. BMI? If it is more that 29 you are obese. Water? Protein? Weightweightweightweightweight! Ok, bye bye."

ARGH!

Right, where are those fruits?

Baby talk

Elder Sister has just told me to make sure that Mango talks to my belly all the time.

"But Mango doesn't really talk," I tell her. I am worried. What if the baby doesn't bond with its daddy?

"Well, you'll just have to make him talk some more now. Before Mandy was born, she would start kicking whenever her daddy came home from work." I think of my boisterous brother-in-law. Yes, that isn't hard to imagine.

As soon as Mango gets back, I mention it to him.

"What? But I do talk." He drops his jacket and bag on the floor of the hallway and leaps on my belly. "Hello baby, it's your daddy here."

"It's too young to hear you, you know." I squirm away from him but he pins me down.

"Don't mind your mummy, she is trying to keep us apart. We will gang up against her. And she will try to feed you disgusting mede-mede stuff to eat, like tree bark and soya milk..."

"And you had better eat it..."

"Yes or your mummy will beat you. I am bigger than she is but she beats me too." Mango is making kissing noises at my belly and muttering in an even lower voice. I think he is speaking French.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to baby."

I wish I had kept my mouth shut now. I'm not sure I like him clinging to my belly like this.

The journey so far...

...Has not been easy, I can tell you that!

But, it got better and now I am happy - with the occasional niggle here and there.

First things first, that stupid counter at the top of my blog is WRONG! We found out at my first scan that I am actually farther along than was previously thought. So as of today, I am 15 weeks and 2 days and NOT 13 weeks and 6. That is good news.

Secondly, I am not carrying triplets! Hurrah! Maman Mango didn't sound too put out though, she's just happy that the baby was healthy. Although she keeps telling me "Ah, did they check well? I am sure there is more than one. Maybe two sef. Tell them to check well oh, make sure one is not hiding somewhere."

She rang this morning about 7.30am. "Eh! My daughter, I just called to which you Happy Carnival o!"

"Eh?"

"Ah-ahn! This time last year were you not preparing with the gang to hit Notting Hill Carnival? So me I called to wish you happy carnival o. Are you going this year?"

"No, me I don't have energy o. I was meant to go for a party yesterday night. Normally by now, I would be coming back home."

"Hahaha! No more play-play for you. Siddon for house until the baby is born then you can continue your party. Can you not see how much of a funky mama I am? Don't worry, it will soon be over." I know she is mocking me because she is cackling.

But I don't care. I am in the Golden Trimester and it's all good.

UPFATE: The counter is correct now. Hurrah!

Today is a good day!!

Oh wait...have I just jinxed it?

Yesterday I threw up for the first time and had my first dry heaves - about five in total. But today, is a (relatively) blissful day. I am still ill mind but it just isn't as severe. Part of me is wishing I am further along than I actually thought and that the all-day sickness is going for good, but to be honest, I can't do anything but live moment to moment. Which is a lesson I'm learning as someone who is wont to planning every facet of her life.

Hard lesson. Valuable too, I hope.

Mango Head told his mother when she was in traffic in Lagos on her way to the market. She tried so hard not to scream in the bus but she called later. "You know, eh, whenever I remember it, I just start praying 'Father I thank you, I thank you lord, glory be to your name.' So take care of my triplets very well o! You hear?!"

TRIPLETS?!!!

Green around the gills

The morning sickness is killing me.

I'm still not sure why it's called that since mine frankly, seems to last all day, but either way, it's killing me. The worst thing is, if I delay a meal, or if my stomach is anything less than full, full? It gets a lot worse. I have to stuff my face with everything I can find.

For the past week, this has been healthy food, as per usual. Salads, grilled chicken, fruits, fruit smoothies, and wholemeal pasta. But in the last two days, I have had chips which I never usually do. And right now at 11.40pm London time, I just cooked and ate some Indomie onion flavour noodles. I feel no shame. Anything is worse than feeling this sick.

And then there's the burping. If I had a pound for every burp, I'd be able to pay for this kid's Master's degree to Cambridge. Or Harvard. Or whichever university makes it to the top of the league table in 20 odd years.

But anyway, here I am at 12 minutes past midnight, burping away and watching Season three of How I Met Your Mother, while Mango Head snores in the bedroom, oblivious to anything. To give him credit, he has been going mad trying to find the perfect anti-nausea ginger beer with the right amount of ginger and fewer bubbles. Does it even exist?

Spilt Milk

OK. 3 minutes...3 minutes....what the hell am I supposed to do with three minutes? Stare at the red of my eyelids? I’m sure people who design these things do it to punish women. Just like I will punish Mango Head if this turns out to be real. I haven’t actually thought past that point. Does this mean I can no longer do my South American tour? That sucks. Plus, I’m supposed to be in the US of A in August and this will royally screw it up. Well, it won’t really because it’ll hardly show, but one does hear stories about overzealous, Yankee airplane officials pulling heavy women off the plane if they look like they’re about to drop. And I’m already a heavy woman....Oh lord! The weight! I’m supposed to lose it all before I even contemplate anything of this magnitude. Now it will only triple and I’ll have to lose it all over again. I know I’m being totally selfish but I really don’t want to have to live in a boubou for the next nine months. I don’t want to be a stereotypical African woman who drapes the whole thing in yards of fabric; I mean, isn’t it supposed to be in itself, a shape? I see all these ‘white’ celebrities.... pseudo-celebrities some of them, like Khloe Kardashian and she’s wearing short dresses and high heels. How did she do it? How was she even that tiny when I already look like an elephant without trying? Maybe a boubou is all I deserve, like my mother, grandmother and all the women before me.

Serves me right for not getting that coil. I mean I have been talking about it with Mango Head for a while but I’ve just been too, too busy to do anything about it. Work has been murder with half the office in South Africa for the World Cup. Holding down the fort is just too time-consuming. But I really should have gone to get one long before now; after all it has been a year.

God! Now everyone at work will think I am leaving in August because of this! That is so annoying. I don’t want to be one of those women! I want to be one of the young women who leave to do something else; to travel, to have other experiences, to try it as a writer....which was the original plan before...which is the only plan. The only plan for me! The only plan. Period. But I might have to start saving soon, so I suppose spending on writers’ workshops and courses are out. They aren’t cheap. Pah! I have got to stop letting my mind run away with me, the stupid test is still running the hourglass symbol. There is no proof of anything yet. Come on, damn you! I haven’t got all day! She picked up the stick and threw it down the toilet with all her might...I have got to stop doing that. I don’t know why I am always writing this damn novel/novelette/ short story in my head instead of putting it on actual paper. Always a random string of sentences, anytime, anywhere. Why did I not just start writing the stupid book? I would have finished long before now with my typing speed. And I have tons of ideas too! But I suppose that’s not my problem, is it? I am a chicken, a coward, afraid of failing so I give up before I even try. Is that any kind of value to pass on to anyone? God, poor thing is royally screwed. I can’t make plans that work, I’m fat and afraid of failure. It just keeps getting better and better.

Maybe all isn’t lost though – if it ends up that way. There have got to be loads of women writers that are internationally successful and have gone down this same route; JK Rowling, Danielle Steele, Stephenie Meyer, Sophie Kinsella...does Sophie Kinsella have some? I always thought the Shopaholic series were the dying cries of a woman forced to renegotiate her identity. Oh I don’t know. Anyway these women all have some and they’re not doing too badly, are they? The question is, did they become successful before or after? Hmm...must look into that. Maybe I should go and get the laptop from the living room but I don’t want to get loo germs on it. Plus, I’d rather not wake Mango Head till I know for sure.

See his Mango-headed self, snoring happily. He doesn’t know if something is about to hit him. I will literally throw the stick at his head and wake him up. I mean, why should I be the only one to suffer through this anxiety? My hands are shaking. I don’t think I have ever seen my nails this colour....can someone die from excess adrenalin in the system? I must look that up on Google as well. I don’t doubt someone can commit murder from excessive adrenalin because right now I want to murder him for sleeping like a baby....ugh. Goosebumps. Mango Head says he’s never seen anyone have goosebumps on their chest before me...OW! I think I must have lain awkwardly on my nipples last night. It was so hot and I couldn’t go to sleep thinking about this morning, so I only tied a piece of ankara cloth over my body when I slept. The rough folds on my chest kept grazing my nipples. Mango Head as usual, didn’t notice me tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, but he sure will notice if he has to start pulling extra shifts! Haha! I crack me up. Actually, that’s not funny. I’d have to find a way to make extra money too. I must add that to my Google search ‘How to make money fast without winning the lottery’, just in case. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

It feels like three minutes to me now. Thank God for working in broadcasting, it just gives you a sense of timing without having to look at a clock. I really must open my eyes and face it like a grown woman. It’s only a stupid little stick after all...

SHIT.

Looks like I have to wake Mango Head.