Trimesters: A Poem About Pregnancy

In the first trimester, I thought that I would die
Survival felt impossible, the joys of motherhood a lie
For six weeks I lay on bed rest, not knowing what to do
Praying for an ending, for a healthy infant too
It’s hard to be optimistic, when you can’t stop being sick
When you’re showed scans of your baby, and think ‘man, that kid’s a dick’
I missed my 30th birthday, but we muddled right on through
There’s not much else for it, really, when your head’s stuck in the loo
You’d think I’d have been much weepier, but in truth I stayed quite strong
(And if you believe that for a second, your perception of me is wrong)
And so throughout my first trimester, I wanted just to cry
But when you’re that dehydrated, it’s easier to beg to die

Then came the second trimester, a jollier affair
My wasted muscles reforming, I can even brush my hair
My legs are feeling heavy, I look roly poly too
And it’s near on impossible, to go an hour without the loo
My world has become much gassier, and I sob at every song
But if Michael Buble wants to warm my heart, who am I to say it’s wrong
I’m very, very tired, and my brain has died a bit
I can’t seem to stop eating, my wedding ring barely fits
But every time I feel him (for yes it is a boy)
Every roll, prod, punch and kick, they fill me with pure joy
Even if he adds such strain, there’s a very real threat of piles
And with each and every step I take, I sound like I’ve run a thousand miles
I have difficulty lacing my shoes now, true, but it’s a small price to pay
To know I’m closer to meeting him, with every passing day

And soon the third trimester, the D Day of the three
A time of endless birth plans - a real jamboree
But through the cramp and heartburn, I expect to feel at ease
For here’s the thing by this point, I just want my baby please

So if you were to ask me, I’d smile at you with glee
A polite table is not, after all, a place for honesty
Instead of discussing gas and gore,
Birth centres, placentas, C-sections, more
I’d demurely pat my bump for you, and spin a disarming line:

There’s really nothing like it…
It’s such
A special


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