“What would you like to drink?” asked my husband on a recent night out.

“Oh, a glass of white wine please,” I replied coolly.

“Wine?” He asked with an eyebrow raised. “I thought you weren’t supposed to drink alcohol when you’re pregnant?”

“Ah s***,” was my reply. “I forgot I’m pregnant."

And so goes the story. This wasn’t the first time in the past five months that it’s slipped my mind that I’m expecting our second baby, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

I was warned from all second time moms. “It’s so different with your second pregnancy because you’re so busy with your first child,” they all echoed.

I used to wonder how that could be true. With our now 10-month old son I was acutely aware every single moment of every single day that I was expecting a baby (and so was everyone around me!).

I knew how many weeks and days I was, at what development stage the baby was at and what fruit he compared to in size at any given moment.


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When people ask me now how far gone I am I’m never sure. If I’m being honest as I write this I’m not sure if I’m 21 or 22 weeks, or maybe I’m 23 since Saturday!

All I can tell you is that I’m due a baby sometime between February 25 and March 3 (we’ve already been given three different due dates) and there is definitely someone little one doing summer-salts inside my belly.

During her visit last month my mother pointed out that through the whole week she only ever heard me mention the second baby twice or three times, mainly speculating what the sex will be. (For what it’s worth I’m thinking we’re having another boy but watch this space -- and no, we’re not finding out.  We like surprises.)

Granted, during my first trimester I couldn’t but be aware of my pregnancy. There were 13 weeks of morning sickness and exhaustion -- a not so friendly reminder -- but when that went away life resumed to normal, and aside from a visibly pregnant belly I keep forgetting.
I’ve done many silly things that I probably shouldn’t have while pregnant. I won’t list them all, but here is one stupid example.

A few weeks ago my husband was at work, my son in bed and I was alone with a cup of tea watching the new Irish guy, Tristan MacManus, on Dancing With the Stars.

All was well with the world until out of the corner of my eye I could see something shoot across the living room floor. It could have been a mouse but it was probably a monster of a centipede – you know those hairy creatures that run faster than a speedway car and have a million legs.

A mouse I could handle, but this little fella froze me to the sofa. I called John (my husband) and got a cold response.

“And what do you want me to do about it, I’m working,” was all I got.

Some help he was. As I sat in terror on the sofa for another five or so minutes I considered calling my very friendly landlord but opted for my good friend and neighbor Gerry (Geraldine).

Explaining the emergency and asking her to wear boots for the kill, she immediately came to my rescue.

After spending a few minutes searching the floor there was no sign of him. (I’m assuming he was a male).

I began to think maybe I imagined it. Was it a shadow from the television?

However, one quick shake of our second sofa did the trick and out flew the terror that zipped right across the floor in front of me, causing my heart to race extremely fast.

“Stand on him, quick, kill him,” I shouted from my corner of the sofa curling my legs up as far as I could just on the off chance that he grew wings and flew in my direction.

“No, I’ll guide him out the door, I hate the crunch sound of killing them,” Gerry said way too kindly.

And here comes the moment where I forgot I was pregnant -- a quick glance of my living room alerted me to several books behind me on a table.

Within a second I jumped over the back of the sofa like a Charlie’s Angel and landed down on my ankle. I still managed to grab a book, throw it to Gerry and she in turn squashed the centipede. (I hope the Irish Voice doesn’t get any letters from PETA for this action.)

Gerry, a nurse, asked, “Are you okay?”

“My ankle is a little sore but I’ll be fine now that he is dead,” I replied as I thanked her in the same breath.

And then it hit me that I was four and a half months pregnant.

“What did I just do?” I squealed. “I forgot there for a moment that I’m pregnant.”


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My stupid super-woman dash over the sofa could have cost me much more than a sore ankle.

I guess I’m also too busy with Colum to think about the pregnancy.  He has us on our toes, that’s for sure.

It’s 5.30 a.m. and I’m writing this. He has me up bright and early this dark Monday morning. Pre-Colum days the last time I saw 5:30 a.m. on the clock was probably coming home from a night out on McLean Avenue.

The only thing that will keep him away from my laptop this morning is the vacuum cleaner. Who would have thought?

Colum gets hours of entertainment out of it. He even tries to mimic the movement of vacuuming the floor. He’ll be handy yet! Hopefully trained by February all going well!
Colum also has no inhibitions and doesn’t mind too much embarrassing his mommy.

We were in my local deli last week picking up some bits. He was up in my arms looking cute and smiling at all the customers.

“Oh he has lovely blue eyes,” said an older Irish woman.

Proud as punch I thanked her and saluted a younger man I know to see from the neighborhood. He was there with his young daughter and we exchanged pleasantries about each other’s kids.

Mid conversation my “adorable” son decided to fart, a loud-as-hell rasper that turned heads. But the worst part is because it was so loud it could have come from any of the adults in the store. Only the Irish dad knew it was from my direction.

In an embarrassing effort to make sure he knew it was from my son and not from me I began loudly and jokingly patting my son’s bum and saying stupid things like, “Oh Colum I shouldn’t have given you all that fruit for your lunch, you can’t be making stinkers like that in public” (insert nervous laugh here).  I went on and on like someone with verbal diarrhea.
There is no question in my mind now that this man thought I was blaming my 10-month-old son for something I did. I swear it was him!

On another public outing over the summer Colum thought it was perfectly okay to pull down my t-shit exposing my undergarments to the world.

I guess it’s just the start of it and in a few months I’m in for double trouble so now is the time to begin paying attention of my second pregnancy, possibly dealing with my fear of creatures (I think I’d need counseling for that one though) and doing my best to keep Colum out of the local deli.


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