I’ve been a bit quiet on the blog as the last few months have been quite hard going and in all honesty making it to work and back is all I’ve been up for. I never really passed the Trimester One fatigue stage so I’ve still been largely unable to socialise in the evenings or even be much company for my husband when we both get home from work. A few months ago I just made the decision to accept this though which helped a lot. If it’s past 9pm and I’m still up we both know I’m pushing it so I’m packed off to bed with a big kiss on my tummy and Real Housewives to watch on my laptop. I think I’ll actually look back on this time nostalgically, although it doesn’t feel like it right now.
A couple of weeks ago my husband and I decided to take our babymoon. We both work in travel and know that the amount and style of travel we are used to is going to have to change once our little Chip has arrived, so were quite keen to have one final trip away just the two of us. This was not, however, a typical trip for us; usually we are exploring somewhere far flung and exotic, this time we took a short hop, skip and a jump to the Channel Islands and made Jersey our home for just under a week.
Now, I’ll be honest, I wasn’t buzzing with excitement at the prospect of Jersey for our final fling but it turned out to be everything I didn’t know I wanted: long walks on wide beaches, seafood restaurants along the waterfront, discovering crabs and sea anemones in little rock pools, some great shopping (I picked up a STEAL of a Marc Jacobs bag) and some fascinating history to learn about.
This sounds pretty idyllic and I’d love to end things here with images of myself and my bump gracefully floating round the beach, eating ice creams and feeling in love. These things happened but so did glutes that ached so bad my husband had to try to pummel them into submission at night, the arrival of my hormonal hysterical crying (a ridiculous story, which I will share with you another day), unexpected morning sickness that left me thinking I’d have to spend a day of my holiday in bed and then the trump card… sudden and unforeseen weeing in the middle of the main shopping street.
Among the many things that the more ladylike pregnant women choose not to share with the rest of the population (lest we should sensibly decide to never be daft enough to get pregnant and go through these things ourselves, I assume) is the not-so-fun game of Sneeze Roulette in the third trimester. Pregnant ladies sneeze more anyway (due to the increase in blood creating more mucus and decreasing nasal channels, I hear. Yuck) which for the first six months is not a huge problem. I actually quite like sneezing. But then one day you sneeze and you think “oh. I think I weed on myself a little then”. This is just your body sending you a teaser. A few weeks later you sneeze, actually feel your body relax, and then know for certain what’s happened.
So my first major foray into this fun game was in Jersey on a busy Sunday afternoon as we were walking round the main shopping area in St Helier. It wasn’t absolutely packed thankfully (who knew shops still don’t open on a Sunday in Jersey?!) but busy enough. I needed the loo as I usually do so was on the look out when I felt a sneeze coming. To be pre-emptive, I stopped walking and concentrated keeping nothing moving but the sneeze. I sneezed, simultaneously felt things relax that shouldn’t relax, and knew it was too late. What do you do? I was literally stood in the middle of the street in a short summer dress.
I stood still and called my husband over who said he knew what had happened as soon as he saw me standing with my legs unnaturally close together. My attempts to catch the offending liquid were in vain though.
“I weed” I said.
“Oh baby. I can see” he replied. We both looked down and saw trickles of liquid running down each leg.
If ever I needed a sign that marrying this man was the right thing to do it was at this time. We walked to a bench and I sat down, rooting through my handbag. Luckily due to all the mucus issues I always have a pack of tissues on me these days. I handed them to the husband and sat forlornly on the bench as he got on his knees in front of me, in the middle of the street, and mopped up all the wee from my legs and feet. Not my finest hour.
It didn’t ruin my holiday, nor even my day, but it was a cruel reminder that I’m not longer in charge of what is happening with my body. Lessons were learned (wear pantyliners from now on as you never know which sneeze will get you – some do, some don’t), husband-wife bonds were deepened, and memories to take to the grave were made on our babymoon.
As we walked from the bench to find an open branch of Boots to buy some future protection I mumbled “I guess I’ll probably laugh about this one day”. Thankfully the beast of pregnancy has not taken my sense of humour yet so here it is to the whole world: The Great Weeing Incident of St Helier.