Sunday, 12 April 2009

Things not to say to your pregnant wife

We went to a party last night. My Mum drove up to babysit T, arriving just in time to help with a bedtime story whilst I frantically, and badly, applied some slap and put on my new-to-me (ebay!) maternity dress. I don't get out much, well, ever, but with heels on and my face scales (I will follow your tips for face cream, honestly, when we get paid next week!) covered with Benefit's finest concrete powder I felt like I'd brushed up well.

We went out. Now in the second trimester, I treated myself to a half measure of gin and a whole bottle of tonic. Friends arrived, we caught up, ate pie, laughed at pictures of the birthday boy from his childhood and all studiously ignored the dancefloor.

By 10.30 pm, I was ready for bed. I went to tell my husband I was going home and would see him there later. He was pretty drunk by this point. I can always tell when he's drunk as he 'sneaks' outside for a fag and thinks I wont notice that a) he's disappeared and b) he bloody stinks. He gave the baby, my mini bump which always seems to pop out a little more at night, a rub and said 'ahhhhh, you stood up and I thought, corrrrr, she's getting really fat'.

It's my turn to do the weekend get-up this morning whilst he enjoys his (less-than-svelte) lie in. Something tells me T and I are going to have to find some noisy hangover-punishing activities to do. Making smoothies in the blender perhaps? Kareoke? Bedroom trampolining?

Getting fat. I ask you!

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