Four years ago, I woke up in my feng shui ‘duck egg’ pale blue bedroom, basking in the delightfully subtle smell of scented lavender circulating throughout the room. As I opened my eyes, I was greeted to the most delicious sight, one which brought me so much pleasure words can not even begin to describe it.
And, there before my eyes was my fabulous collection of offensively expensive, inappropriate, illegally painful shoes. Each pair sat proudly on a shelf in the carefully-crafted, bespoke unit, housed in its very own brushed cotton dust bag, ready and eager to make its weekly appearance.
In those PB (prebabies) days, I took pride in my appearance. Weekly manicures and pedicures were a must. I took great offence at the mere sight of a potential chip. Hair was groomed to within an inch of its life and regularly treated to the most deserving of treatments. After all, the smog and dirt of the City can be so cruel.
Then, 5 September 2005, I found out I was expecting not one, but two babies. Once I had fully digested the news and recovered from the shock (it took approximately two years, eleven months and six days), I decided to focus on the positive – the obvious need to purchase more shoes, of a sensible nature of course. I spent my evenings reading and cutting out pictures from the weekly glossies of soon-to-be-mothers modelling the latest outfit and imagined myself proudly walking down the Kings Road in pre-pregnancy jeans, a Madonna-esk T-shirt and the latest LK B summer wedges, proudly sporting a perfectly formed small bump. I would by chance bump into long-lost friends who would say, ‘My God, you look fantastic, when’s it due?’ and I would smugly respond, ‘Oh, any day now.’
What I didn’t foresee, because nobody told me, was that I would wake up one morning having morphed into the elephant women – I exaggerate not.
I remember a month or so into my pregnancy sitting on the tube suffering serve indigestion and popping the latest family sized bottle of Gaviscon, thinking that maybe I needed to buy some bigger clothes. The metal clasp on my trousers just wouldn’t do up, the shirt buttons were dangerously near to popping and embarrassing the poor sod sitting opposite and the suit jacket was so tight that it actually restricted the flow of blood through my arms to such an extent I began to loose feeling in my fingers.
I had tried loosening various items of clothing and had even attempted the old favourite, a safety pin. However, this had proved more dangerous than at first expected. A three-inch, blood-ridden gash in the centre of my every growing belly with blood seeping through onto my newly dry-cleaned Pink shirt was just not the look I was going for. The situation was made somewhat worse by my inability to close said jacket and hide the obvious self inflicted mutilation.
I also discovered early on that my skin and hair suddenly resembled that of an awkward teenager going through puberty. I had been through that once and lived too tell the tale but now, I’m thirty for God’s sake, did I really have to go through it again? Didn’t I read in one of those books that a women is suppose to blossom, and transform into an elegant glowing picture of beauty with thick flowing glossy hair, sparkling eyes and radiating skin. Clearly something was very wrong.
After an emergency trip to my local, unsympathetic, ‘male’ GP, I was informed coldly that no, not all women blossom. Some unfortunates suffer the indignity of not only being physically possessed by two life forms, but may also endure a vast array of physical ailments and emotional upheaval.
Emotional upheaval! I’d say that was a bloody minor understatement. If I could stay awake long enough, I found myself flitting between eurphoria and an emotional breakdown brought on by my inability to recall my pin number at crucial moments of the day (buying food) or, I was vomiting into various curbs throughout London, screaming from the gutter, in my beautifully tailored suits to concerned passers-by, ‘I am not hung over you bastards. I’m pregnant.’ You see, the problem was nobody managed my expectations. And isn’t this what life and business is all about – managing expectations? So why, does this courtesy not extend to soon-to-be-mothers?
I thought I had nine months to readjust and prepare for the arrival of these two new people. Well, I was wrong. What the books don’t tell you in preparation of this joyous occasion, is that you may be one of the ones chosen nine months of nausea, hair loss, bleeding gums, an emotional breakdown, heart burn and insomnia brought on by the sheer expanse of your growing body, which makes it impossible to do anything including, the most precious of past times, sleep.
During this traumatic period of transition, concerned friends and family tried in vain to offers words of advice and reassurance that ‘it’s all worth it in the end’. I would, of course, question not only their sanity and intellect, but most crucially their inability to recollect the sheer pain of it all (and I am not talking about the physicality of giving birth) I am merely referring too the nine months preceding the finale. Over time, I have come believe that all mothers suffer what I call ‘selective amnesia,’ God’s way of ensuring that the human race does not die out. If you don’t believe me then I challenge you to ask any mother what it’s like, pregnancy that is. And, you will hear them say with a smile and a little laugh… ‘Oh, it’s not that bad’. Hear me readers and listen closely. They LIE. They all LIE.
My magnificent transformation from Prada to Primark, I would like to say was gradual. It wasn’t. It was overnight. I soon found myself purchasing size 22 clothes with tears running down my face, stubborn in the belief that I would never succumb to being one of those - the ones who wear patterned pregnancy kaftans with handmade recycled leather ‘flat’ shoes.
One morning, soon after the darling duo were presented into the world, I found myself sitting in our local Café Nero, in Dulwich drinking coffee laughing about the wonderful merits of earlier motherhood, and I began to feel normal again, just for a moment.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder followed by rather loud Rodean-esk ‘Excuse me, you’re Charlotte aren’t you? It’s Amanda, we use to work together.’ Suddenly, I looked up at this familiar face and before me stood a former colleague, from my days in the City. Immaculately turned out in the latest City wear. I smiled awaiting the obligatory ‘Congratulations, they’re beautiful.’ Then, I was suddenly stunned into a state of unconsciousness when she loudly said, ‘Jesus Christ, what has happened to you.’
I felt my bottom lip wobble and my eyes fill with tears. I looked down at my badly stained trousers and faithful, long black lycra/cotton mix Primark T-shirt and £1.99 Asda flipflops. And, there in my arms lay my beautiful, perfect baby girl.
In that moment I knew, what ever mother knows, Primark is the new Prada.
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