Little brunch of joy
A bundle of joy means Sophie White is in need of lots of cosseting and minding — sadly, she discovers that everyone is bored with your moaning by the third bump
Afew months ago, a potent rage set in, which I presumed was a culmination of several low-grade irritants. We were in the middle of the fruit-fly hell-plague of 2019 in my neighbourhood. Himself seemed intent on baiting them by leaving a veritable cornucopia of fruit lying in the wake of every chaotic breakfast, and no matter how many times I rage-cleaned, still the fruit flies prevailed.
Himself eventually bought one of those sticky spiral flycatchers to hang in the kitchen which caught barely any flies — but did cheer me up somewhat, since Himself apparently couldn’t pass within two feet of it without it sticking to his head. Yet even these petty victories couldn’t completely cure me of my rage, and I seethed on, presuming that this was a tsunami of PMS and nothing more.
I have a long tradition of not realising that I am pregnant until embarrassingly late. The first baby was practically crowning before I copped what was afoot. Baby II was similarly subtle, but this current foetus is not gestating quietly, oh no.
What with the all-day sickness, I caught on pretty quickly that what I believed was PMS was, in fact, a much more serious issue. I have long dreamed of a child to join me in my devotion to musical theatre, and I am certain this one’s the one. It appears to already have the high-drama persona of a stage child. I can just tell. Surely no shy, retiring child would torture me in this way.
The great thing about finding out you’re with child late is that the pregnancy virtually
“I have long dreamed of a child to join me in my devotion to musical theatre”
flies by — not so when you’re carrying a future contestant on Toddlers & Tiaras. At no point do these stage-foetuses let you forget for even a moment that they are there: they control your every culinary impulse (there was a croque
monsieur mania with this one), plague you with all-day morning sickness, and essentially act like a parasite, with you as the host body.
It also doesn’t help that by the time you’re lugging around your third bump, nobody cares. They’ve zero time for your moaning. Pregnant first-timers are like minor celebrities — every day, some excited stranger in the street or at brunch asks me if it’s my first, and when I respond, “No, my third”, the enthusiasm visibly ebbs.
“Ahh, you’ll have your hands full...” They turn away, disappointed at not being able to impart some cosy, life-affirming axiom along the lines of “Oh, it’s the best thing you’ll ever do”. I’m not some glowing newbie all of a sudden, I’m the woman supplying sticky children to wreck a future brunch in their favourite restaurant.
Since I won’t be brunching out any time soon and I’m tiring of the looks of concern I’m getting from the croque monsieur purveyors at the Maxol deli counter, I’m making my own lazy cheat version at home on the weekends.