Tag Archives: Pregnancy

Preggo Watch: I Flashed The Intern

When I was a teenager, I wasn’t a fan of jeans. There was something about the thick, heavy material that made me feel even heavier than my obsessed-with-being-thin-teen-mind could handle. I thought my arse looked terrible in them, and so I avoided them completely. Instead, I wore dancer’s clothes – thin, baggy combats and fancy tracksuits that you could only buy in an actual sports store. My arse and I were content.

Somewhere in my mid 20s, I gave in. Jeans weren’t all the same any more; they were thinner, longer, boot cut, slung low on the hips and they made sense to me again. I went to Nude on Liffey Street and tried on a few pairs. The sales assistant said; ‘Not being a lesbian or anything, but your arse looks great in them’.  SOLD. I bought three pairs.

But now that I’m pregnant, the aversion has returned. Preggo jeans and I have had a major falling out. The two pairs I had since Preggo The First are a size 12, and I don’t recall them being a problem, but they have literally been falling off my arse and down from my front for the last few months. ‘You’ll need them in a few months’ my mother advised. ‘You’ll grow into them’. But I haven’t, they make me feel bigger than I necessarily am and what pregnant woman needs that? In fact, they are so ill-fitting that I can pull them up and down when using the toilet, without having to open any buttons or zips.

‘Perhaps they aren’t the right size!!’, you’re yelling at me. I CAN HEAR YOU. Not so, my friends, not so. I did read on a few maternity wear sites that you should buy the size that you were pre-getting-knocked-up, and I WAS a size 10. So off I popped to H&M yesterday in Swords Pavilions (PS: Why is the maternity section the one part of the store that is completely squished together? A bit of space between the rails wouldn’t go amiss, you weirdos) – and bought a pair of size 10 maternity jeans. Of COURSE I didn’t try them on until I got home because I had Jacob with me, and when I did, guess what? They were too bleedin’ tight. They go on and all, but I’ll be hating them into an hour of wearing them because bump and I will be too uncomfortable. And I’ll definitely have to open buttons and zips to go to the loo, a practice which I am now completely unfamiliar with.

In the office last week, I was still wearing the non-fitting size 12 jeans. I was also wearing VERY red shiny underwear. Our intern from last year, Super Dave, had come back to do some training with us, and as I came out of the toilets, he asked me how the bump was. ‘Great!’ says I, pulling open my cardigan to properly see the bump beneath. ‘Getting very bumpy, thanks!’

Super Dave smiled and got back to work. I adjusted my jeans (as one constantly does), before sitting down and there it was: a great expanse of red satin knickers gaping through where preggo jeans should have been. I DID open them that day to go to the loo, and so unusual was it, that I never bothered to close them back up again.

I fucking hate jeans…




[Don’t miss ‘Preggo Watch: Pissing and Moaning’!] 


Preggo Watch: Pissing and Moaning

When Ass Monkey and I found out I was pregnant with Jacob in 2011, I made a promise to both of us that I would never complain to anyone about being pregnant. There were so many people in our lives at the time who were having difficulty getting pregnant, or who had lost babies, that it seemed like the most selfish thing we could do. We were lucky: we had gotten pregnant quicker than the time it took to say ‘Quick! Grab a johnny!’, I was fit & healthy, I had no morning sickness, and the baby developed as he should for the duration of the pregnancy. What the fuck did we have to be moaning about?!

I like to think that forcing myself to be mentally positive throughout the pregnancy helped me through on tough days when, you know, you have to try sleeping in the ‘sitting upright’ position because you have wretched heartburn, or you laughed so much at a comedy gig that you accidentally wee’d in your pants in public. These little things happen when you’re pregnant, and it’s vital not to let them get you down. When the big things happen, you get to handle things a different way.

I was also a bit…brave, no – A SHOW OFF – the first time around. I didn’t believe that being pregnant meant that I couldn’t do anything I might normally do. So I continued to lug heavy items around, gig on stage as much as possible, socialize, exercise, paint & decorate the place we then lived in and flirt with boys… Yes you CAN ACTUALLY flirt with boys when you’re pregnant, but only from the comfort of your Blue Fiat Punto when they only see you from the shoulders up and don’t actually know that you’re pregnant. It’s the CRAIC.

I have to be honest with you though, this pregnancy? I’m letting it all hang out. I’ve quit the live gigs for now, I refuse to lift anything I deem heavy – that even extends to my breakfast bowl from the table to the sink sometimes – I’m asleep by approximately 9pm every evening & there’s a good chance I will never flirt with another man human again. And anyway, the Fiat Punto is long gone…

Moaning? Yes there has been some moaning. This morning, I complained to Ass Monkey that my old maternity jeans no longer fit and caught myself stating ‘It’s bad enough being pregnant without feeling like a frump as well’. BAD SHARYN. I didn’t mean it, and retracted it from the atmosphere in our GrimNagh kitchen immediately. It’s not ‘bad enough’ being pregnant ANYTHING.

So I now vow to you that I will recall my positive mental attitude from 2011 and stop all this ‘But I’m preggggnanttttt’ whining for the next 5 months. Promise. But the pissing bit? Fuck-all I can do about that, I’m afraid. I’ll just try and keep it inside my pants this time ’round ;o)

Panto Pic

[Like this: Then don’t forget to read ‘Preggo Watch: I Forgot To Take My Pill’]