| Dear Bridget
Vital statistics: Please excuse me for having a sneaky look at your diary. But, having read that you’ve survived not one, but 61 whole days without fags or alcohol – and noticing you’ve been spending an awful lot of time in the office toilet, making very unfeminine retching noises – I’ve finally figured it out. You are pregnant. This will explain your recent mood swings – veering from crabby to swooning and ethereal, as if you’re carrying a little secret with you. Which, of course, you are. Naturally, you have not the foggiest notion what motherhood really involves. Before this (unplanned) pregnancy, you nurtured occasional, fluffy fantasies starring you, slender mother, tossing aethetically-pleasing infant into the air. You reckoned you'd be all grown-up and sorted with your nails done nicely - not to mention, of course, being settled in a gorgeous flat with the man of your dreams. The real stuff, as you're discovering, is trickier. I've seen you, Bridget, staring at the cigarette packets behind the till. One day, I swear, you actually drooled. I was pleased to note that you resisted, but spotted you inhaling deeply when someone lit a ciggie in the street. Anyway, let’s be positive. Those short skirts of yours were starting to look a little dated; soon, as you’ll discover, your growing bump will cause them to rise up at the front, so you’re really going to have to wear longer lengths. Don’t think you’ll get away with floaty Ghost-type clothes in slightly larger sizes. As you balloon to the size of an articulated truck, you’ll find joy in elasticated waists.
As for your weight, pregnancy will knock your tedious calorie counting on the head. That's great news for the rest of us. There's nothing more yawny than someone barking on about how many Emmental slices they've eaten (who cares?). You will no longer be a diet bore. Instead, you'll become a pregnancy bore - fretting that every twinge signifies something terrible, and whingeing that the nursery's not painted yet. One aspect you will enjoy is all the attention you'll receive: as the first in your circle of friends to get knocked up, you'll be the star of the show (until, that is, everyone loses interest and finds you terribly dull when sober). And what about the father? The fact that you're being so cagey about his identity lends an edge of mystique to the proceedings. By the time the baby’s born, you’ll be living together. This doesn't mean blissful stability: naturally, you'll find plenty to worry about (does he still find you attractive with your poor, gnarled nipples? Will you ever resume your sex life? Will your beloved dump you for some single thirtysomething now you're a jumpery mother?). On the plus side, you'll do what whizzy, professional women call 'putting the career on hold' which means, in practical terms, not having to go into the office for absolutely ages. This will allow you acres of time to lie in bed with a bosom lolling out, fretting about your relationship. Tom, your gay mate, will help to ground you - and be fantastic with your child. Those useless girlfriends of yours will not comprehend that you cannot bring the baby into wine bars. Don't worry: you can sit outside, jiggle the pram with your foot and still chuck back the Chardonnay. No guilt about poisoning your infant: you'll knock breastfeeding on the head after three months, figuring that a year on the wagon is quite enough for one lifetime.
Naturally, not everyone will embrace your new role as a mum. Your own mother, for instance, will astound you with her uselessness (aren’t grannies supposed to knit matinee jackets? Babysit once a decade or so?). So please, don’t expect any assistance from her. She will jingle a rattle in front of your baby for 2.4 seconds, get bored, and announce how tired you look. Other aspects will give you sleepless nights: like all new mothers, you will believe that you are Not Doing A Good Job. You'll fret about your baby being bored and under-stimulated; about buying too many jars and not spending enough time pureeing root vegetables. But chill out, please. Your child will astound you by liking you very much - and may even boost your popularity. You might scoff at lumpy women pushing prams in the park, but once you befriend them, they’ll make you seem frightfully glamorous. You might even make a new best friend. Her eyes will widen as you regale her with tales from your young, free and single days. ‘You’re making it up,’ she’ll retort. ‘I mean, you seem such a natural mother.’ And you’ll turn to her and say, ‘You really think so? One day, I’ll let you read my diary.’ Talk about the film, the book and |