Dear baby girl,

Well, my happiness about not getting sick was premature. This week I’ve been beset by a wretched cold. I’ve had some time off work and struggled through the rest of the week as our magazine has to go to press soon. It hasn’t been fun.

Related: Peeing on a stick

Then, this morning, after getting up and having a nice cup of tea to settle my inflamed glands, I vomited. For the first time in weeks, I did a proper morning sickness vomit, and proceeded to wet myself a little while I did it. Oh, yes, the loss of bladder control is delightful! Apparently it’s only going to get worse. There’s only so much clenching one can do. I’m starting to think it’s useless, but can’t quite come to terms with the idea that I might need to wear some form of panty liner for the rest of my life. Again, people tell me it’s worth it, but it’s a loss of dignity I wasn’t prepared for.

But I’m sure you’re fine in your little insulated bubble. Your poor Mum just feels ill, and now even more so that I’ve been vomiting. This pregnancy thing really is a tough slog. In the meantime, your Dad has snored through the whole thing. It’s 11am and he’s still blissfully unaware in bed. I know I shouldn’t begrudge him it, I really shouldn’t … but part of me does.

I’ve read that you’re starting to get your baby fat this week. Those cute little rolls that we’ll wash and put sunscreen on, and dress in little tights and impractical shoes. Something about thinking about your squidgy little thighs makes me ache to meet you. I know it’s going to be a challenging time, but I really just want you to be born, not only for my own wellbeing, but also so I can meet you and see the person you’re going to be. It’s funny, loving someone who you haven’t met yet. I think it’s different for Dads, they don’t have the physical connection that Mums do. We already have a bond that can’t be broken.

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