Three teens and a baby: New trimester, new house and big new life decisions

This has been the hardest first trimester of any of my four pregnancies; relentless sickness for 11 weeks, weight loss, a level of exhaustion I can’t ever remember experiencing before, working full time and looking after three teenagers. What joy!

And I’m pretty sure that being 15 years older than I was last time I was pregnant is the main factor.

So, it’s with huge relief that I stagger over my first trimester’s finish line and into my second, at last. I have returned from our break in Venice with a new-found spring in my pregnant step, having had some kind of Apérol-and-caffeine-induced epiphany about Life while there, and how I want it to look for my newly-shaped ‘gap family’.

Yes, I drank alcohol and caffeine. No, I didn’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure Italian bambini grow just fine on the occasional Campari and espresso. I might have worried about this in my first pregnancies but I’m an old hack at this now, and, within the obvious limits of what’s safe, I’m very relaxed about what I consume. One of the few advantages of age!

I have the energy to run again for the first time in weeks (a huge boost to my mental wellbeing) and am determined to try and put some of the dreams I had in the Venetian sun into place in my stress-filled life back home.

I usually make grand plans when I’m drunk on escapism, but then slip straight back into old habits, and feel irritated and stressed before I’ve even got through passport control – not helped by how irritating and stressful passport control is.

Not this time, though. I have a 3-step ‘pregnancy phase 2’ plan.

Step one, is presence. I feel I am not. Present, that is. Like many of us, with my smart (or maybe-not-so-smart-after-all) phone glued to my palm, I’m often more absent, than in the room.

I spend far too much time mid-conversation with hundreds of people across the world that I barely know, and ignoring those I love, sitting right next to me.

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And I hate it. I hate what it does to me, my mental health, my relationships, my stress levels and the end of my index fingers as I tap tap tap away, scroll, swipe, zoom, delete, and lose myself in world contained within a tiny screen, usually cracked because I’ve dropped it in a state of stress and hurry.

I didn’t have this mental detachment during any of my previous pregnancies, or when raising my older children. Helpfully, they were born before mobile phones and Google-wormholes existed, and I don’t want any newfound omni-distractions and attention-zapping for my new baby either. I don’t want him or her to look up and see the top of my head, while I’m staring at a foundation-smeared screen. I want to be present.

So….phone away.

Step two is to start getting the new house we have just rented, ready for our new family. To get the weird ‘renty’ smell out, and put our stamp on it. It’s exciting, and very strange, starting to think about the places I might be breastfeeding, where the baby will sleep (I’m naively hoping it will sleep at all!) and where my older children will hang out with their new sibling.

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So, like all sensible pregnant women, up a ladder I go with a huge tub of white paint, and start blitzing. Spring is coming, the sun is out, and there is no place in my new life for 15-year-old, stained magnolia emulsion. I want freshness, clarity and light.

Step three, is going to be the big one. The one where we finally break the baby news to our families.

I’m just starting to show, and my days of secrecy are pretty much numbered. But before we do, I need to do one thing. I call the ultrasound clinic again, and book a scan to identify the sex of our baby.

Boy or girl…the time has come to find out. And then tell everyone.