When I found out that I was pregnant the ‘reality of the situation’ didn’t really hit me for a few days, or weeks really. Sure I stopped smoking – but I had been intending to that anyway. And I stopped drinking – but then I didn’t drink that much to start so no biggie there.
What got under my skin faster than another bathroom trip was that there was to be no more creamy and stinky cheeses, no more Eggs Benedict and most definitely no steaks ‘cooked’ a bloody bleu. And just to be clear, these are all my favourite things. I would happily spend every last cent that I had for a piece of the fine duck liver that I was so partial to. Never mind the oysters that I enjoyed practically every day. You have to love the concept of stock quality control.
No. Reality hit when I was advised by my Doc that the job that I had accepted as private chef around Greece and Croatia was most definitely off the table as there was no guarantee of medical treatment being available. Sure, I could still get over that. Been there, seen that. What killed me was that I had after what seemed trying forever been offered an interview for work – wait for it – in the Antarctic. I convinced myself that with a medical unit onboard and contracts only being for six months I could so do it. Hah. Tell that to my pushy (read ever practical and rational) gynaecologist.
Seven months down the line my shopping expeditions for Le Creuset and stiletto shoes has been very smoothly and swiftly replaced with shopping for nursery decor and cute little onesies.
And I’ll you this. I definitely don’t mind.