Pregnancy Glow

Heidi has it. Bxxxh!

We've all heard about it. Thousands of pregnant women are no doubt trying to find it: that elusive glow that everyone raves about.

I definitely started to look better after about week twenty. My hair and nails - which always grow super fast in Dubai - were even longer, the aching exhaustion passed, and I felt good. Most of the time I forgot I was pregnant.

And then the heat kicked in.

Dubai in Summer is testing for the best of us, never mind being six or months pregnant. But here's the thing: if you time your car to office walk just right, that slight mist of dewy humidity on your cheeks can (almost) make you look like you've found the Holy Grail of pregnancy glow.

Sadly, if your timing is off, you look like something that the cat coughed up: wet, slimy and to be avoided.

I enjoyed the gamble.

And on the days when I lost I thanked the lord for MAC face powder and this stuff.

The Kindness of Strangers

I am blessed with truly lovely real-life friends who have been an absolute tower of strength throughout my pregnancy.

And I have also encountered overwhelming kindness and support from people who I have either: never met in my life, met very infrequently, or not caught up with in years. Truly incredible.

There was the lady I met on a Dubai forum, who had the same challenges as me, but was pregnant with twins after 4 rounds of IVF. Safe to say I take my hat off to her for how she's handling things. We met online, and graduated to daily emails with updates and support. We shared medical information, hospital advice (crucial) and cheered one another on through dark times and happy times. Our emails literally got me through the day on more than one occasion.

Then there was the lady on a UK forum who also was in the same medical situation, who emailed me before and after emergency surgery, and who even set up an online group where about 15 of us checked in and chatted (virtually) about what we were going through. And what we were going through really wasn't easy. They are an amazing bunch. Again, I have never met any of these lovely ladies.

And then there were the amazingly thoughtful messages and emails from blogger friends and ex-work colleagues that I hadn't spoken to in YEARS. Truly incredible.

Living away from home, going through a high-risk pregnancy, it's hard not to feel isolated. The kindness shown to me by strangers and those far away, the support, advice and joy they gave me, has been immense. Words really can't express how much they have meant. Thank you all.

How to Not Look Half Dead when Pregnant

See! Lovely!

There's heaps of tips on how to distract from the fact that you are getting fat as a pig when pregnant. As a fan of oversized everything (sunglasses, jewellery, handbags) I already have a lot of these in my armour, and am rocking them on a regular basis to even out my growing tum. 

But by far one of the simplest tricks I found was good old fashioned lipstick. My secret weapon? Chanel Rouge Coco, in shade Mademoiselle. It's the perfect shade of pink: attention grabbing enough that people notice it, not so bright you look like an explosion in a Girls Aloud factory.

I can't take the credit for this find, a few years ago in the fair city of Manchesterford I Single White Femaled it from my friend Emma. Turned out she'd SWF'd it from our good friend Vikki (Von Straussbag). 

Whatevs. 

However we discovered this, the end result is the same. I've found that a simple sweep of this joyous tube really distracts people and has actually led to hugely positive comments. And as I've discovered, a pregnant woman will seek out a compliment like a pig searching for truffles. Enjoy.

What's in a Name?

It's a big responsibility, naming a child. Now cats, cats I can name. But there's a world of difference between a whimsical, slightly comical name (Frank, Benjamin etc) and a name that a human being has to live with not just as a baby and toddler, but fully functioning adult.

Obviously I am approaching this like any normal person: I have an excel spreadsheet split into: Boys/Girls (obv), and then 'English/Arabic'. It seemed only right that a child born in the country that we've grown to love and call home, should have a name which reflects this.

When I told my lovely Iraqi/American friend of this plan, she was quick to point out a potential pitfall. 

"Britney!" she mused. 
"Bear in mind you'll have a British baby. 
Born in the United Arab Emirates. 
With an Arabic name. 
You are just asking for trouble at immigration desks around the world!" 

She made a good point. 

As it is, the husband and I can't agree on anything, male or female.So the poor child may be nameless for some time. Rumours that Burj Khalifa/Fazza/Twiglet are front runners are completely unsubstantiated!

It will be a nice surprise for you, dear readers!

Hunger Games

How dare someone photograph me at breakfast!

You do hear stories about women eating for England whilst pregnant (hello Jessica Simpson!) and there is no doubt that I've been troughing more than usual. I'm aware of what I'm eating, and especially aware that as on an exercise ban from the consultant, I don't have my usual option of running off any extra calories each night.

I've operated three main modes when it comes to food during this pregnancy:

Zero interest (sick as dog)
Self-explanatory really. Whilst I was luckier than most in that I was never actually sick, I did feel grim and hungover until about 12 weeks. Thankfully this was almost predictable to the minute (11 am -1 pm each day) so I could pre-plan. My handbag was never without breakfast bars and dried fruit boxes for the first 12 weeks.

Don't Stand Still, I Might Eat YOU!
I've been hungry before, of course. But until pregnant I had never experienced hunger so bad that it gnawed at my insides and rendered me absolutely incapable of doing ANYTHING other than eat. To the point where I would be reduced to tears and/or violence if anything stood between me and a meal. Again, this was mainly for the first 12 weeks (husband drew huge sigh of relief when we passed this milestone).

"Honestly, I'm Not Hungry." UNTIL Food is in Front of Me.
Towards the end of the second trimester I was really relaxed about food. The sickness had long gone. I wasn't ravenous. I was relaxed. Or so I thought. 

I've now discovered that once a plate of food is in front of me, whether at home, or in a restaurant, I chow down with the ferocity and enthusiasm of someone setting a Guinness World Record for Speed Eating. It ain't pretty, let me tell you. I could clear a plate in the time it takes for others to pick up their cutlery and re-arrange their napkin. Which I can just about get away with at home, but which is NOT a good look in a restaurant. What to do? I'm powerless. 

Where's the Bump

I couldn't let this be me...

It took me a while to start getting fat. I was still scampering around in a bikini at 22 weeks with no one anyone the wiser and zero bump. At this point I'd put on about 4 pounds. That said, my trousers did start to feel tight. And believe me, there is nothing worse than rushing to get to work and then realising in the melee that your trousers don't zip up and you have naff all to wear.

My tip to avoid this? As soon as you realise a garment is too small, put it away. Don't cling onto it in the hope that somehow you'll squeeze it back on. You may well be able to get the zip up, but as soon as you move you'll feel like you're being cut in half by a cheese wire.

In my case I had a storage box in a bedroom wardrobe where I sadly bid adieu to my loved and much enjoyed pre-fatso clothes. 

The way I looked at it, it's something to look forward to when the sprog pops out and you snap back into shape immediately, yeah? (snorts derisively.)

I fought the urge to burst into tears as my favourite Whistles skinny jeans went into the box. Along with the pencil skirts and much, much more.

So long, dear friends. See you in 2014.

Crying Over Split Milk...and Everything in Between.

Watch out, there's a blubber about!

Lord knows there's been reasons for tears this pregnancy. It's been stressful and high risk, and therefore traumatic on far too frequent occasions. However I think it's safe to say that not all of my tears have necessarily been rational. 

One thing I realised early in is that pregnant women cry like fountains. Well this pregnant women does anyway. Show me a picture of a kitten on a plate and I could easily break down.

Top (ridiculous) things I have cried about so far this pregnancy:

My GHDs smashed

The husband was well and truly to blame for this one, in his rambunctious striding across the bedroom he tripped on the cord, as I was using them. As I saw them ricochet out of my hand and onto the tiled bedroom floor, I knew it wasn't going to end well. Ceramic plates and tiles are not the best bed fellows. And as I picked the shattered pieces up, I cried like a baby. I was half way through getting ready for afternoon tea at Atmosphere in the Armani Hotel, it was 40 degrees outside, I looked like an Afghan hound at the groomers : the 'before' shot.

Ghds are extremely hard to find in Dubai, and when you do, they cost around 200 quid. In my defence I probably would have wept over this when not pregnant.

Molly the cat stayed out (almost) all night

We tend to keep MTC in at night. She's black, cars drive fast, the roads aren't that well lit. And well, I just feel better knowing her hairy wide ass is snoring and safe within the walls of Casa Satwa. To be fair, she rarely shows any interest in going out, at all, during the summer months so it's not usually an issue.

One night she did venture out, and there was no sign of her at midnight. I had visions of her poor broken body at the side of the road (morbid thoughts also more frequent when up the duff I found). My mind imagined her dying a long painful death, ALONE.

This just broken my heart into a million pieces. Hot fat tears ran down my face as I explained this to the husband. And I cared not one jot that I was sat in a crowded bar as this happened.

Obviously when we got home she was nonchalantly on the front step like nothing had happened. I gathered her up and whispered sweet nothings into her hairy ears. The husband eye rolled.

Raw bacon

Only a pregnant woman can understand the ravaging hunger that can come over you. This, coupled with morning sickness, can make you like a heat seeking missile where food is concerned. 

So you can imagine my horror when sick as a dog, starving, yet realised I was physically repulsed by the (normally) delicious pack of bacon in the fridge. I literally couldn't touch it without dry heaving. When then turned into huge heaving sobs. Not my finest hour.

Sad movies

Pregnant women: do yourselves a favour: do not watch The Quartet (nursing home with old folks and Billy Connolly) or Song for Marion (woman dying of terminal cancer). Well you can, but you will be bereft for DAYS. I sobbed into a towel in the bathroom for at least three consecutive nights.

Pitter Patter in Le Famille Britney

The times, they are a'changing. 

I'm getting fat for the second time in my entire adult life. 

(The first time was a few years into Dubai when I put on about 10 pounds. I was miserable for 6 months until I stopped eating like a pig. Then I returned to my happy, svelter self.)

Why, you say? Yes, you guessed, I'm up the duff! 

What, you hadn't guessed? Well luckily I haven't turned into Kim Kardashian (yet). Although there is plenty of time for that. And, if you live overseas, you haven't had a chance to see me from the waist down (god bless Skype).

You may have gathered from the low key Las Vegas wedding that I'm not a pomp and ceremony kinda gal. So don't expect this to turn into some glowing, slushy, Earth-Mother baby blog. But I will share some observations and tips (bear in mind I am far from your traditional fawning pregnant woman) which may or may not entertain you. 

Answers to anticipated questions:

• No, we don't know if it's a boy or a girl
• Yes, I was sick as a dog at the start (never actually threw up)
• Yes, I have felt the baby kicking
• Yes, this heat is killing me
• No, I haven't had any strange cravings
• Yes, the husband is the giddiest goat on the block (as am I)
• Yes, I am having the baby in Dubai
• No, this doesn't mean it is a UAE citizen
• No, we haven't decorated a nursery

Oh, and all things being equal, baby Britney will be rocking our world by the end of October.

Watch this space.

It's That Time Again

Home Sweet Home

I've said this before, when it comes to visa renewal time I'm always a little surprised. Can two, three or five years really whistle round that quickly?!

The last time was back in 2011, before that 2008. My first visa took forever to come through, but more than that, I couldn't help but wonder: would I stay in Dubai for a WHOLE THREE YEARS??!!

Fast forward five years to my second renewal and it's fair to say that should they ever announce permanent visas for UAE ex-pats, I will be first in the queue. Elbows at the ready!

My Name's Monica, and I'm a cleanaholic

Love it! (Disclaimer: not my hand, not my sofa.)

I make no secret of the fact that I like things neat and tidy. It's not for nothing that I've been compared to Monica from Friends in the past. In the words of the woman herself: 

"If it's not a right angle, it's a wrong angle!!"

OK I'm not quite that bad, aside from anything else I have precious little time to arrange things symmetrically like a crazy person, but I am a sucker for a tidy room, organised closets and orderly drawers. I just feel more calm and soothed when everything is in its rightful place, and will happily pad around the villa for an hour on Friday morning neatening things up after the usual whirlwind of the working week.

It's meant a few clashes with DH. He's a pretty typical man: ie just doesn't seem to SEE mess or be bothered by it all. He can step over pants on the floor for a full week without thinking: " what are these clothes in a heap here?" or "perhaps I should move them."

We've rubbed along ok - I've relaxed a little about high-jumping the pile of pants, he's learnt the route to the washing machine and dishwasher.

One thing that has bothered me for a long time (and is nothing to do with DH, god love him) is our sofa. It's been around for a few years, survived a few years, and it's textured grey nature has meant for me, it just MUST have been hiding a multitude of sins.

This being Dubai, one quick call, 25 quid later and a team of little men turn up to clean it. They arrived with what looked like a white dalek, and giddily went about what can only be described as 'wet vaccuming' the couch.

Their giddiness reached fever pitch when I got giddy about the whole process too. I was then treated to a description of the process so detailed and enthusiastic that I'm pretty sure I could now turn my hand to the career of sofa-vacuuming, should I wish to.

One hour later they left, the sofa was resplendent in its new, sweet smelling, sparkling glory. I swear it looked brand new.

"Look!" I exclaimed to DH!  "It looks amazing no! And smells fantastic, hey!"

He cast an eye over their results with a bemused expression. "This makes you happy darling?" 

"Yes!" I squeaked.

"Well in that case let's get it cleaned whenever you like."

Ah. His housework misdemeanors were all forgiven in a flash.