The story so far: Josa Young has 2 children aged eleven and eight. She’s now 41 and expecting another baby. 16 weeks down the road, this is her pregnancy diary.

And so to phase two

We are now in the second trimester – that arbitrary division of nine months into three. Apart from the fact that, the placenta takes over from the ovary to produce the progesterone that supports the pregnancy, and you are meant to begin blooming on cue; nothing else seems different. My waistline is just a memory now but, thankfully, I don’t seem to be putting on too much weight. My appetite is nil.

I interviewed French birth guru Michel Odent early in the pregnancy. His main message seemed to be that oily fish and its fatty acids will cure anything from pre-eclampsia to low-birth weight, and make your baby a genius into the bargain. As a result, I have been swallowing herrings, sardines and smoked salmon like a demented penguin.

When I look in the mirror, I might be deluding myself, but any little creeping lines around the eyes seem to have receded. My hair gets thicker and thicker and grows like a weed – which means the grey streaks at the roots begin to show. To dye or not to dye? That is a question that has several answers. I settle for semi-permanent hair colour from the chemist. Luckily, it doesn’t need washing very often at the moment, so the dye doesn’t wash out.

Unexpected things turn my stomach. I took Archie to have his ears syringed – never have I seen so much earwax in my life. I had to rush to the basin in the nurse’s office. And she hadn’t even noticed I was pregnant.

We reach a significant landmark – 100 days of plenitude, I mutter to myself. However, a celebratory attempt to read One Hundred Days of Solitude bores me. I give it up. I am much happier with the certainties of Anthony Trollope, and other undemanding 19th century fiction.

Time for a holiday

We fly to Rome, to stay on the Tuscan coast for ten days – our first flight abroad with the children. They are very excited. Landing is a nightmare. I cannot work out if I am going to be sick or faint – I clutch one of those flimsy bags miserably. Queuing for passport control, I break into uncontrollable sobs. Kindly Italian policemen, for whom reproduction holds no embarrassment, help me into a wheelchair and fetch a bottle of chilled aqua minerale. It occurs to me that throwing a pregnant wobbly is a good way of distracting attention from smuggling activities.

I spend a lot of time on the beach, ignoring the usual advice to avoid any kind of suntan. It just makes me feel so good, and the children are in bliss in the sea. To lie on my front to read, I dig a small pit in the sand to accommodate the increasingly hard, little bump. The baby is seven inches long now, apparently. I sleep luxuriously in the afternoons, I have never minded the heat. Thoby finds my changing shape wildly attractive, I am glad to say. The cold white wine looks so tempting that I take a sip. Yuk!