Bun in oven

I bid thee adieu

Unwittingly, I had my last taste of alcohol for a very long time.

See, when you are actively trying for a baby or going through endless cycles of IUI/IVF, you are constantly avoiding bad things like alcohol or sashimi. It’s like fraud, basically. You have to bloody pretend that you are preggers because it will increase your chances of conceiving. Har har har. Bloody worked for me, didn’t it? What’s the point of being good when being good serves no purpose at all?

Anyway, the point is: you give up the right to be bad because you are trying to bake that bun. You say goodbye to that pint of beer and stop buying wine. And then you attempt to spawn. It’s all very civilized, all very calm.

When it’s a WTF STUNNED!!! baby, you never had that chance to say a proper farewell to the right to drink. From the moment you see the second line in your pee test, you immediately halt all suspicious and hazardous activities. That includes eating that slice of otoro and having that lychee martini that you really, REALLY craved. Instead you order a bitter lemon and blame your teetotaler state on, erm, gastric. True story.

This total avoidance of alcohol didn’t bother me much (I’m a social drinker) until one night when I was watching a food programme on the telly. Bizarrely, the chef took himself off to the bar for a pint of beer in the middle of the show and as the camera zoomed in on the glass, I started smacking my lips and imagining the smooth beer going down my throat. Mmm mmm.

That’s when it hit me: bye bye beer (cue dancing candlesticks and sloshing, frothing mugs of beer).

And I was sad.

Sad enough for husband to offer me a sip of his Chang beer (I LOVE Chang beer) when we were in Phuket. Sad enough for me to actually have a tiny contraband sip of his Chang beer. Yes, we be bad parents. But you must understand, being pregnant comes with having intense and inexplicable cravings and at that moment while I was slumped on the sofa watching the telly, I really, really wanted a pint.

But that was enough to give me closure. I said a proper farewell and shut that alcoholic in me in the attic.

See you in 2013 (if my breastfeeding attempts succeed).

Bun in oven

Party in my tummy

I…have a tummy.

There’s no nicer way of saying it. I. Have. A. Tummy. My fats are currently spilling out of my favourite Uniqlo skinny jeans.

Yes, yes, I am pregnant, I have this bun in my oven, a tiny human is growing in me blah blah blah.

But I am only 6 weeks along! The bun isn’t supposed to rise (and show) till after the first trimester, no? So why do I have a muffin top? WHY?


Not a day goes by without the contents of my stomach somersaulting. It’s like, woohoo! We be having partay in tummy! And then I have this instantaneous craving to eat something but the tummy gets all pissy after I have taken, oh, 10 bites and starts moaning, no, stop eating NOW. And then there’s this huge amount of gas that’s generated by all that moaning and groaning, and then I burp.

Several times.


Real classy lady, I really am.

At least I don’t scratch my balls when I walk.