February 12: Mid-wife Crisis

Saw the midwife today. The last time I went it was horrendous. A, they messed up my time slot which was enough to tip me over the edge in the first place. B, it was run by a student who said ‘Fab’ to everything.
Planned pregnancy? No. Fab.
Feeling healthy? No, I want to vomit. Fab.
Father’s details? I’m not providing any at the moment, sorry. Ok - Fab.
I think she upset me more than anything has for a long time. Just what you need when life is at its bleakest. No nice, friendly, caring supportive midwife. But a hung-over, twenty-something year-old in a push-up bra and killer heels. Yes, they may need to practice. But for God's sake - not on stressed-out first-time single mothers.
This time, I checked there wouldn’t be a student present. Thankfully, my luck's in. They don't train on Fridays. Too busy having a ‘Fab’ time with their ‘Fab’ friends drinking 'Fab' cider and black presumably.
I don’t know why but it seems I walk into a midwife’s room and something happens that makes me act like a complete twat. I didn’t need to go for Bump (having seen the consultant already this week). In a bid to get organised (well done me) I just wanted the form that entitles you to a £190 pregnancy grant. Every little helps and all… and you need to get that… from your midwife.
But why couldn’t I have been polite? Or at least made an attempt at chit-chat? Or at least smiled and talked about the weather and how much I was enjoying pregnancy and twiddle-y-dee, isn’t life wonderful…. I think I was just in such a ‘I’m very busy today, I just need my grant form then I’m going to run out of the door,’ mood that – shame on me - that’s pretty much what I said as I walked in (idiot, idiot girl).
Clearly the midwife wasn’t very impressed. I think she thought I wanted the money to purchase a Prada handbag and a 100-box of Marlboros. She looked at me, looked down at her desk, twiddled her pen, and said: ‘That’s fine dear but how about we see how the baby’s doing first, give it a quick measure and that sort of thing?’ Ouch, god, I felt like a mercenary bitch. I took off my coat and sat down.
She did her stuff – took my blood pressure, inquired about my health, then made me lie on the bed while she yanked down the top of my tights (so undignified this mother business.. consultants don’t do that) and measured Bump from top to bottom with a tape-measure. Excellent, I thought. How very high-tech. Is she going to make me touch my toes and look at my teeth next? Is that it? Can I go now?
But, no, no. She sat me down. Did I know about antenatal classes in the area? Had I signed up to any? Had I joined the NCT? Did I want to go to breast-feeding classes?
I was polite and took the forms but they suddenly made me want to cry, cry, cry. I don’t want to go to classes on my own. I don’t want to be around couples and all those people who ‘plan’ pregnancies. What would I say if someone asked where dad was, or are they all too PC to do that nowadays? I could pretend he was away on holiday. Or - even better – business. Where could I send him? India? I could say very very loudly, ‘The father is away in Delhi on very urgent business and that’s why he can’t be here today learning how to bring up his child.’ I’m a crap lier. Somewhere along the line I would sob and end-up confessing the whole sorry story to a bunch of strangers who just want to learn about changing nappies and how to clean up baby yack. I just don’t want to go to such a thing when life is so awful, awful, awful. I don’t want to be on show. I want to hide, hide, hide like a woodlouse under a rock.
If I could fit under a rock, I honestly think I’d try it. I left the surgery, forms buried in the bottom of my non-Prada handbag. Fuck the classes, I think, as I start up my car. I’m not going. That’s what the Internet’s for.