The Mummy Club

Something I'm learning, very quickly in fact, is that I'm on track to become a whole different person one day in the near future.

As I write this, my laptop is resting precariously on my bump, with my little boy flipping away like a dolphin after too much tuna. This is probably because I've just eaten a sugar-laden bowl of Nesquik cereal with ice-cold milk, despite not being a huge fan of either pre-pregnancy. Apparently baby boy is and boy does he like his sugar and he rewards his mum with lots of flips every time she scoffs some.

I could wax lyrical about the wriggly little human inside me all day, but I'm aware this is neither interesting or productive. So instead I will explain to you the ins and outs of The Mummy Club.

Source.

Before getting knocked up, I viewed mothers in the general sense as poor unfortunate souls (very Ursula/Little Mermaid). It's not that I didn't want children, I obviously do very much, but I'd see mothers looking desperate, trying to placate a screaming child and do an inward sign of the cross and thank God that wasn't me. I'd risk life and limb entering a busy shop where buggies blocked the aisles and wonder why the hell these women thought that midday on Saturday would be a good time to bring a tank-sized pram out for a stroll around Primark. I'd see pregnant women and stare with the same curiosity directed towards me today. "Yes, nosey human, I am pregnant, not fat. See how I cradle my bump? Is proof. Now please, avert your eyes - am not freak of nature and would like to peruse the confectionery aisle in peace." And if you think that's bad you should see people's faces when I've got a crate of Stella in the trolley for the boyfriend - they automatically think Pissed and Pregnant.

While I'm not a mummy yet, I've certainly had my eyes opened to the ways of the world when you no longer see it through well-rested, perfectly made-up eyes.

Already I appreciate how much of a bitch pregnancy can be - I've had my fair share of sickness, heartburn, sleep deprivation, weakness, the inability to see one's toes... Already I can bestow tips to other mums-to-be, with what feels like a fairly knowledgeable head on my shoulders. I've learnt how INSANELY HUGE your placenta is, I've learnt birth methods, I've become an expert of One Born Every Minute, I know useless pregnancy facts that will only become interesting when expecting yourself.

I'm also a member of a rather fantastic group on Facebook for other ladies expecting in May. As potentially sad as this sounds, I love it. We share stories, ask for advice, share our bargains and tips and upload bump pictures and coo over sleepsuits and prams. It is here that I can vent about my worries or stress at having no sugar-based treats in the house. It is here that I can be myself and not worry about sounding like the baby-obsessed pregnant woman that I am. No one thinks I'm boring or "emotional" because of my hormones. I feel pretty lucky to have my fellow baby carriers around.

This being said, I do wonder about life post-birth, when a little baby wants to gnaw on my nipples and pee in my face. Will I be a fully-fledged member of The Mummy Club, or can I be more than just a mummy?

I love having things in common with people, it's generally how good relationships work, even the most chalk and cheese among us have SOMETHING in common. But I'm not sure I want to be labelled Just A Mum. I'm not sure any woman does.

And, as with all groups, not all mums are the same. I'm not going to be eating my placenta in a freeze-dried form, mixed into a smoothie. Nor am I going to encourage breast-feeding or co-sleeping until the age of five. I'm not going to try cloth nappies, because the thought of handling baby shit more than I need to freaks me out.

I won't cling on to mummy relationships out of fear, the same way I haven't clung on to relationships with friends who I no longer have anything in common with and who regarded my pregnancy with a mixture of curiosity and horror.

Sure, I'll be in The Mummy Club. I'll probably share my horror stories and advise a future mum-to-be to stock up on maternity pads (essentially absorbent mattresses for your fanny - approach with a clear head and an acceptance of what is to come) and Lanisoh (apparently a God-send if you want to breastfeed and have recognisable nipples by the end of it). I'll have baby-rearing advice, an opinion on self-soothing and I'll join in the Dummy Debate (already hate them but God knows what I will do when desperate).

But at the same time I'll also be rolling around the floor with the dog. I'll still cook nice food and eat it all. I'll still wear make-up and look after myself in order to fulfil my MILF title that I obviously want to covet. I'll still be obsessed with makeup and spend far too much time on YouTube. I'll still get a kick out of celebrity gossip and read magazines in the bath. I'll still be that daft cow with an obsession for nail varnish and a penchant for Bacardi.

I may not do all of this as much as I do now, but I'll do it.

You may read this, from The Other Side and think: "wait until the daft cow has the baby and then she'll learn." But trust me, I'm not going to change who I am, because I'm not sure my son would want me any other way.