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!