Nine Months

I’ve been taking Folic Acid
and stopped drinking any wine.
Your dad thinks it’s his birthday
(we do ‘it’ all the time.)
But little do I know yet,
the job’s already done.
We’ve started our nine month journey
and this has been month one.

Month Two, the test results are in
but so’s the morning sickness.
I’m desperate already to see a bump,
but there’s just a little thickness.
You’re our little secret just for now,
a glint in Daddy’s eye.
Although I want to burst out loud
and tell every passer-by.

Month Three and we can see you
in fuzzy black and white.
Our excitement is a cliché;
we show everyone in sight.
“There’s its tiny nose,” we point.
“How lovely,” they all said.
You’ve tiny fingers, tiny toes
(and a rather massive head.)

Month Four and now I don’t feel sick
and start to have some cravings.
Which consist of any type of food
if covered in chocolate shavings.
Then it’s time for a special moment
that truly fills me up with joy.
When I listen to your heartbeat
on the midwife’s clever toy.

Month Five and it’s time for another scan –
the cold gel makes me chilly.
Everyone is staring hard
to see if there’s a willy.
We don’t know if you’re boy or girl,
so nothing pink or blue
White babygros, white vests, white hats
and tiny yellow shoes.

Month Six: we’re in the final stage
and start to look for a pram.
Your dad is heard to mumble:
“These cost more than my first van.”
This month’s when I first feel you,
small movements in my tummy.
And suddenly it feels so real
I’m going to be a mummy . . .

Month Seven and my clothes don’t fit,
so I browse maternity collections.
Knickers you could camp in
and jeans with extra sections.
People say I’m ‘blooming’;
pat my ever-expanding tum.
(I know that you need padding
but why’s it on my bum?)

Month Eight I start to waddle
and I find it hard to bend.
I’m weeing like a racehorse
and I’m eating like his friend.
And If you’ve seen a beetle writhe
when turned upon his back;
You’ve got an idea of how I look
when getting out the sack.

Month Nine and I am desperate.
This waiting game’s a ‘mare.
Attempting any old wives’ tales
to get you out of there.
I’m fat and tired and impatient
with chronic indigestion.
I’ve tried pineapple and raspberry leaf
(but not the other suggestion.)

Month Nine plus one and I feel a twinge
that’s not a Braxton Hick.
I take a bath, switch on the TENS
and get your dad home quick.
I’m scared, excited, happy,
terrified and over the moon.
And suddenly, it dawns on me,
I’ll get to meet you soon.

The longest nine months of my life
and somehow I’ve survived.
The moment I’ve dreaded and longed for
has finally arrived.
And I try to take a moment
despite the cramp and coming pain.
Because one thing is for certain,
life will never be the same.

I was going to be . . .

I was going to be the parent who never raised her voice.
Who cooked you fresh organic food, bought only wooden toys.

Today I’ve screamed a thousand times and threatened measures drastic.
You’ve had chips, three times this week, and our lounge is full of plastic.

I was going to be the parent with a craft box fully stocked.
Tissue, card and googly eyes: a Pritt stick ready cocked.

But I found I couldn’t make stuff; my creations were pathetic.
And glitter makes me want to drink until I’m paralytic.

I was going to be the parent who made your birthday cake.
But after one horrendous fail, I’m now a shop-bought fake.

I was going to be the parent who kept every childhood something.
But I seem to have lost your lock of hair and your baby book has nothing.

I planned on baby massage, baby yoga, all things artistic.
What you got was: ‘baby watch whilst mummy eats her weight in biscuits.’

I thought I’d be the parent who loved her child a lot.
Kept them safe, fed them well and cleaned their stinky bot.

But the love I felt when you were born just knocked my off my feet.
A love that makes me place my hand just to feel your heart’s soft beat.

I may not be the parent that I first set out to be.
But I’m the parent that truly loves you and forever that I’ll be.  

Emma Robinson (2014)

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