Anastasia Brien's pregnancy diary - week 24-26

Anastasia is a freelance writer living in London with her husband, Nick. They have been married for 3 years and are expecting their first baby. This is Anastasia’s diary for week 24 of her pregnancy

The mother of all realisations

My bump grows. Having said that, I’m incredibly grateful that I am yet to look pregnant ‘all over’, and still seem my normal self with but a small beach ball under my shirt. My mother warned me that she was one of those pregnant-in-all-directions women, so I suppose I’d better prepare myself for the worst. The fact that I am six inches taller than her might work to my advantage, though. But I did get her cellulite. Damn. Too bad one can’t choose what to inherit. Speaking of which, it has just occurred to me, as I write about my own mother, that, I myself am going to be a mother. A mother. What traits, warts, and annoyances will my little sprout inherit from me? What will I be like as someone’s mother? Will I still be funky and fun to be around, or will I just be ‘someone’s mother’?

Speaking of funky mothers, can you believe Madonna’s body after childbirth? And she’s 42! It’s so unfair. Why did she have to have another baby and flaunt that body, whilst I’m pregnant? How can I make Nick understand that her recovery is not normal? I am aware that it is her job to get her body back, and her army of personal trainers, nannies, nutritionists, chefs, and dogsbodies probably don’t get a pay cheque until she can bounce a coin off her abs (those vital tummy muscles), within days of her child’s birth. My friend Katya, whose father is a plastic surgeon in California, has a theory with somewhat of an inside track. She says that some celebrities get their tummies tucked immediately following the Caesarean, whilst still under the anaesthesia. It sounds extreme and a bit sickening, but I’d like to believe it’s true, just to make myself feel better. And I’m telling Nick it’s an absolute fact.

Leave me breathless

My body is starting to do some strange things. I am constantly out of breath. It’s really embarrassing when I answer the phone and the caller inevitably asks if I’ve just run up the stairs. I hardly ever tell the truth (I could only run up the stairs if someone were chasing me with a knife), but I especially resent the fact that being breathless makes me feel like an emphysematous grandma. I consider myself to be pretty fit, and I hate the sound of all that heavy breathing at the drop of a hat. Apparently, according to my many sources, I have to endure at least twelve more weeks of this, since the only respite is when the baby ‘drops’, in the last couple of weeks.