If you’re having a particularly shit (baby-related) time, stay away from Ikea.
We visited recently, and that place is positively teeming with pregnant bellies. Seriously, I could have counted at least TWELVE – and that was even before we got to the stinky candle section that heralds the end of the shopping-maze.
I swing wildly between extremes of behaviour when faced with a swollen tum. I either:
a) Studiously ignore. ‘Oh, look darling! Some bendy plastic ice cube trays COME LOOK OVER HERE!!’
b) Stare. Hard. Probably in creepy way. How old is she? Is she showing off in a tight stretchy top, or has she gone for the more demure empire line? Has she got other kids? Does she know how GODDAMN LUCKY SHE IS!?
If when I’m pregnant, I’m going to wear a t-shirt. Every day. It will say, ‘HELLO LADY WHO’S STRUGGLING TO GET PREGNANT. I SEE YOU. IT’S OK. I HATED ME TOO. JUST HANG IN THERE.’
It will need to be a pretty big t-shirt. But that’s OK. I’ll have a pretty big tum.