March 1: And stretch...

My counsellor keeps telling me I need to make some mum friends so I won't feel isolated when Bump is born; so I begin building a support network. I know this myself. I don't have any who fit the bill. All my friends are still foot-loose and fancy free, out for evening bike rides or impromptu lengthy pub sessions. That's all behind me now. I need to bond over bugaboos, baa-baa-black sheep and back ache. It sounds grim.
I have made the first step, however, and signed-up to antenatal yoga. I think, 'do I really need to know how to stretch?' Surely there's just one thing that needs to stretch during birth, and I don't think you can practice that one.
It is - however - absolutely blissful. Slow, easy, peaceful, run by a woman who exudes calm and serenity and an aura of contentment which I'm always sickeningly envious of. The classes always make me cry. I don't know why. But suddenly, as I manoeuvre my hulk of a body into a half-squat or the 'cat' position, tears will spring from nowhere and drip, drip, drip onto the carpet. I hope no one notices. If they have, they've not said anything.
Normally, at the start of the sessions, the teacher goes round the group, asking each of us how we are. The women all sit there, stroking their various sized bumps, talking about this or that concern. A swollen ankle. A sore hip. A problem at work. I don't join in. I feel very out of place. I just say 'I'm fine' and hope she doesn't press for more.
This week, one of the ladies is due to give birth soon, so we go through yoga positions which are good during labour.
They all, in some form or another, involve the birth partner supporting you, under your arms, or as a cushion, or seat, as you try and squeeze the baby out. The positions are all so intimate. I'm not sure who my birthing partner is. Probably my middle sister - she's a nurse. But I'm sure as hell not doing any of these moves with her.
I wonder if you can pay someone anonymous to come with you. There must be some sort of business specialising in it. Professionals who sign up to see you at your worst, help you through it, then bugger off out of your life without breathing a word. These classes are wonderful but they also just highlight what a mess I'm in. I feel so alone in the group. The women are lovely but all seem very stable, married, partnered-up, on kid number two or three, happy to prolong the class by half and hour each time chattering away with excitement. I don't talk. I smile. A pale-faced smile, thinking 'this isn't how it should be. It shouldn't have been like this.'