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I can still remember when we told the mother I was pregnant: the only reason there wasn’t screaming and shouting was the public place in which we’d told her. 

She took it even worse than the news we’d announced a month previously: that we’d gotten engaged.  That one was met with mutterings of long engagements and the implied hope that if we waited long enough it might never happen.

And that was that. 

The sister was thrilled.  She was all hugs and excitement and desperate to know anything and everything.  It was exactly what she’d been waiting for.  But the mother wasn’t happy, and by extension, neither was the father.

We’d told the mother in law first.  We hadn’t intended to; we were going to wait 12 weeks before telling anyone.  But it was already at least 10 weeks, and we were desperate to tell someone.  So I went up into that smelly empty towerblock room they called an office, and we told her.  And the mother in law called her second husband.  Not her first (and the husband’s own father), not her then current husband, but the second.  In fact, it was possible that on the husband’s side of the family, the mother in law’s then current husband was the last to know.  Even if he did find out that day.  That’s just how the Brazilian family grapevine works.

So this time around, once again, we told the mother in law first.  The husband was on the phone with her and just ‘happened’ to slip it into the conversation.  I think this time she may just have told her husbands in the right order.  The sister in law was mad, but only because I hadn’t told her first.  Blame her brother, the husband, I said.  He was the one the first announced the news.  But keep it quiet; we haven’t told the family yet.

And the next day came and we were driving down to see the family.  How would we tell them?  In the end, I may have done the dirty again.  I’d warned the boy not to say anything until we told him he could.  Then, at an appropriate break in the conversation (right after we’d woken the father up but before he’d had a chance to get hooked into the formula 1), I told the boy to tell everyone the news.  “My mummy’s having another baby.”  How could you get mad at such a sweet little announcement like that.

The sister jumped and squeed again.  The brother grunted.  The father’s attention was lost to the formula 1.  And then there was the mother.  The first sounds to issue fromk her lips were “Well what about work?”  No happiness, no congratulations.  What about work?

And it didn’t get much better than that.

I’m a bit weird about make-up. I’ve gone through phases of wearing tons, wearing none, and somewhere inbetween.

At weekends I wear none, except maybe some clear gloss, because I prefer the feel to balm and if I don’t have something my lips dry out. The people at home are used to seeing me with no make-up. That’s just how we roll. I always hope that I won’t run into someone from work. I’ve not always been so lucky.

During the week it’s a different matter though.

Maybelline Dream Matte Mousse in classic ivory. A must for hiding what might as well be red clown-like circles on my cheeks, nose, chin and forehead. Around them the skin is paler than pale. It also does a good job of covering most things so I only need concealer for heavy duty patches.

L’Oreal Touche Magique Corrector in Ivory Beige. An essential to cover those dark under-eye rings. This one’s just about the only concealer that’s a light enough shade for my skin. It also gives some amazing coverage too.

L’Oreal True Match super-blendable powder in Rose Ivory. I move up to Rose Beige in the unlikely event that my face actually tans through the summer months.

Mascara in brown or brown black. That said, my favourite so far has been Max Factor Beyond Length Mascara in Moonlit Black – I absolutely love it but it’s just too harsh for the daytime. My next, as soon as I get paid, will be Max Factor Flase Lash Effect Mascara – I’m just itching to try it.

Avon Glimmersticks Brow Definer in Blonde. I’ve tried other things. I don’t like powder; combine the two of us and there’s too much potential to go wrong. Most other pencils I’ve tried are too dark. This one’s just perfect for my fair brows.

So those are the essentials for building my face in the mornings, leaving only my lips to worry about (and that’s quite a collection).

Stila Lip and Cheek Stain in Cherry Crush followed by Rimmel Clear Shock Gloss (excellent for putting over colour as the spatula doesn’t absorb the base lipstick and mix it in with the gloss in the tube).

L’Oreal 6H Glam Shine Gloss in Hold on Rose

L’Oreal Glam Shine Gloss in Juicy Rose Glow.

And watch out if you want me to put make-up on in the evening.

L’Oreal Contour Resist Eyeliner in Platinum.

Barry M Dazzle Dust in Old Gold

So, what’s your make-up thing?

This was supposed to be a post about telling the mother.  I was going to tell you what happened last time round, and how, in five years, so little has changed.  I was going to reminisce and yet still love.  I was going to show you just how different the husband and my families are.

Instead I’m going to tell you how yesterday I found myself bleeding.  How I looked down and my brain couldn’t clock that it was a problem.  How I got up and started to make my way back to my desk only for it to hit me like a ton of bricks: there was a problem and I had to do something.

In only a few steps I’d gone from looking perfectly fine, to what I imagine looked like a complete wreck.

I had to tell J.  She took one look at me and knew something was wrong. 

I’ve been in her office a couple of times the past few weeks, and you could tell by her face she was worried about what I’d have to say now.  The first was to tell her I felt like a train wreck, that I wasn’t holding up well and to warn her, just in case anything happened.  The second was to tell her I didn’t want a job that was potentially about to be offered to me.  I’m due to cover the role after next week but it’s no longer maternity leave and now a vacancy instead.  It’s only fair that I go into it with everyone knowing I’m only covering and don’t actually want the job.  We also discussed a job I do want, and the possibility of me getting it.  There’s nothing set in stone, but at least she now knows where I want to be heading.

The thing is, I wanted to avoid telling her for the moment.  I wanted to leave it until I’d either got or not got the job and not have the pregnancy get in the way of things.  No matter how much a company is not allowed to discriminate on the basis of pregnancy, you always know it’s there in the back of the mind.

But I told her.  Rapid fire.  “I’m 8 weeks pregnant”.  “I’m bleeding”. 

She sat me down, called a taxi.  It would  be quicker than an ambulance.  She collected my things that were strewn across my desk, even picked up my smelly shoes so I could change out of my heels.  She talked.  Damn that woman didn’t stop.  Anything to take my mind off what might be happening. 

The taxi driver dropped us off at the corner.  The wrong corner.  J insisted on putting her golfing umbrella up to shield us from the heavy rain.  We kept bumping in to each other, trying to walk under its shelter.  I didn’t mind the rain, it was the least of my worries.  I wanted to tell her not to worry about keeping me covered.  I wanted to shout that I didn’t mind the rain and I just wanted to get there that bit faster.  But I couldn’t.

The bulletproof glass at reception makes you wonder what sort of a place you’re in.  It may not have been bulletproof, but you still wonder.  That’s still what comes to mind.

I was seen quickly.  Questions, blood pressure, walked through to the major side of A&E.  Shouldn’t there have been a wheelchair, shouldn’t they have been insisting I didn’t walk?  I got a chair, not a bed.  Surely that wasn’t right?  Shouldn’t I be resting, not sitting? 

Could I come back at 9:15 the next morning, for a scan?  Don’t they know it’ll take me the best part of an hour and a half?  Don’t they know that I can’t wait that long, that I need to know what’s happening now?  It’s ok, they’ll see me at 3.30 today.  Even that wait will be torture enough.

J left me at a cafe near the station, just across the road from the hospital.  I’d said I was going to get some lunch and just wait the time out.  One look at the food on offer and I knew even McDonald’s would be just as good a choice.  I wandered.  Past the market, looking for something else.  Indian music blasting from market stalls.  Mangoes.  Git ya mangoes ere.  The waving of a banner and the cry of preaching women.  If I could just keep moving, maybe it would all be ok.  But there was nothing, and I ended up back in that cafe eating one of their unappetising paninis.  I read my book as I ate and sipped tea but I’m not sure I remember any of the story.  I tried the library only a few doors down, but I still couldn’t concentrate, and headed back to the hospital.

The emergency gynaecology unit.  A waiting room full of women with problems like mine.  It seemed cruel to taunt us by bringing small children in.  A baby’s cry was enough to set the fear racing again.  A running toddler is enough to remind you what you might be about to lose.

The scan.  The questions.  The same ones I’ve answered three times already.  The black and white, snow on the screen.  I can see things.  I can guess.  But I can’t tell.  Everything’s ok.  Thank God.  There’s the baby.  And this.  And that.  There’s the blood.  There’s still more.  It may still come.  It’s nothing to worry about.  Everything’s ok. 

Here’s a letter for your doctor.  Just wait to be booked in with the midwife. 

I was shaking on the way home, shaking when I got home.  I couldn’t stop shaking.  I was drained.  Gone.  It was all I could do to go upstairs and snuggle down in bed.  The husband came home.  He knew nothing.  I’d forgotten my phone that morning and knew if he couldn’t stay in contact, he’d only worry.  I hadn’t told him.  I told him everything and he sat with me whilst I fell asleep.

I woke up.  I felt much better.  We had things to do.  We pottered around, ate dinner, watched TV.  Another normal evening.  And then I went up to bed.  And it started.  The shaking.  The fear.  I couldn’t take it.  I was falling apart.  The husband had to sit with me whilst I fell asleep.  Maybe, just maybe if he did that, the world wouldn’t stop turning, and I wouldn’t fall apart.

I noticed this morning that I’d find myself, just standing there,k staring into space, unable to move, unable to think.  I was getting better last week, I was coping again.  Now I’m back where I started.

But I still have my baby.

And that’s why you don’t have a post about telling the mother.  A post that tells you what happened last time round, and how, in five years, so little has changed.  A post that reminisces and yet still loves.  A post that shows you just how different the husband and my families are.

The train rushes along the tracks, racing to reach its destination.  The driver trusts in his route, that the tracks will lead him from station to station.  The passengers trust they will be safe, in the hands of the driver, in the seats of the train.  But the tracks know different.  They know how quickly a journey can end when there is nowhere left to run.

Yes, it’s that time of year again.  Another year older fatter.  You can ignore the wishlist on the side and head straight to the comments section where I will be accepting best wishes all day.  That is, before I go and celebrate with a very large tub of ice cream.  Well, I wouldn’t want to get any thinner, would I?!