Great expectations

Sophie White The domestic

Every pregnancy is different. A few months into my second pregnancy, and it was already a totally different story to last time. Last time I barely noticed I was pregnant for the first few months while this time, I was battling near-constant nausea. The nausea was only assuaged by Calippo ice pops, which I consumed at all times of the day and night for the first five months. It’s really weird and annoying eating a Calippo in bed at two in the morning, not least because of an unpleasant side effect I call Cold Hand.

Even more pertinent than the different symptoms attending each pregnancy, is the different ways we, ourselves, approach them. The first time I was obsessed with The Book and devoured each weekly update, hungry for details of my adorable little foetus. This week it’s the size of an apple, this week it’s a mango — always fruit. The second time around and I’m not quite sure where The Book is.

With my first pregnancy I was always heading off for little sleeps, or spending six hours in bed reading and eating sandwiches — no other food lends itself quite so well to bed consumption. These days, the best I can manage is slipping away periodically to get a quick lie-down before the toddler finds me and sits on my face or tries to stand on my belly.

Last time, I harboured ambitions to look nice during pregnancy. I explored cute oversized polka-dot blouses and overalls in the quest to nail my bump style which I saw as being shades of Kirsty Alley in Look Who’s Talking with a dash of Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby — an unlikely source of inspiration I’ll admit.

This time, I just got my old pair of once-black maternity leggings out of retirement and adopted one of Himself ’s lumberjack shirts to lumber around in.

When Yer Man was a foetus, I spent many hours pinteresting his bedroom. When I found out about this foetus, I had a mild panic, wondering where the hell we were going to store the new baby, until I remembered that Yer Man eschewed any notion of a bedroom beyond my body for months.

“Of course!” I thought, “I will be the baby’s bedroom for the first few months at least.” Problem solved. I immediately stopped fretting. Even amassing all the apparently essential baby gear is easier. Last time I wasted hours researching the definitive baby wipes or some such nonsense, this time, I just spent a moderate amount of time chiselling dried Weetabix off the old car seat.

I remember taking mild care with what I ate during my last pregnancy. I agonised, aware with every bite that this is Baby’s first taste of raspberry, and this is Baby’s first taste of kale. Meanwhile, this Baby’s first taste of a crisp sandwich came around the nine-week mark, and it’s been downhill since as my jumbo ass and fat face attest.

This tasty autumnal dish was baby’s first taste of sausage, for which I paid dearly in heartburn. A Sophie White’s memoir/cookbook ‘Recipes For A Nervous Breakdown’, published by Gill Books, is out now