Shattering illusions on the joys of pregnancy

A few years ago, a good friend of mine looked at me thoughtfully and declared: "You know, you are the worst advertisement for motherhood I have ever seen."

The fact that I asked her to elaborate probably proves I am a prime candidate for membership of Masochists International.

She helpfully explained that I was the only person she knew who always lost two stone when pregnant because of continual vomiting, and who then went on to have babies to whom either eating or sleeping, or both, seemed foreign to their nature.

Ah, the shattering of illusions. I thought I made it obvious that such things were passing inconveniences which resulted in incomparably beautiful, gifted and unique children. Somewhere, somehow, the message got scrambled.

Over the years I have amassed a small, but significant, collection of similar comments. The prize goes to the male who one day asked in an inquiring tone: "You know the way you are sort of a family values columnist?" Being no more keen than the next columnist to admit to pariah status, I cautiously answered yes. "Well, given the kind of pregnancies you have, do you not think it might be a message from God to shut up?"

Perhaps there is some slight basis to such kind comments. We had trouble conceiving the first time round. When I finally got pregnant I went on a kind of nine month high, which endured despite the fact I was hospitalised twice for hyperemesis, the posh medical word for constant vomiting. I also passed out a lot. Everything would begin to go white, and a kind of crazy paving effect would spread across the whiteness. That was a signal that I would wake up to find people calling my name and slapping my face. People watch too many movies.

My obstetrician got worried that I had some kind of underlying heart condition, which led to my having to wear a heart monitor for a day. The small black rectangular monitor could not be hidden under clothing, and the electrodes leading from it were also visible. As I was teaching at the time, I was anxious about fielding questions from teenagers. But the only question I got was an indignant one as to why teachers were allowed wear a Walkman to class when pupils were not. The good news was my heart was fine.

I shall skirt over my beloved son's birth, save to say it was horrendous. My husband and I adored him, but he neither thrived nor slept. In fact he was 18 months old before he slept for six hours at a stretch. Mostly he woke every half-hour.

His father and I started to resemble zombies. One day I was in a shop, and they did not have what I was looking for. The sales assistant offered to order it for me, and asked me for my name. I stared at her. I realised I had no idea what my name was. I turned around to my husband and asked him in rising desperation what my name was. He was so tired he did not even react to the ridiculous question, just answered that it was Breda, adding helpfully seconds later, Breda O'Brien.

THE two daughters repeated the effect on my digestive system. I discovered that vomiting uncontrollably in public places is a great way to gain a reputation as a hopeless drunk. I am once again pregnant, and the fact that I already have three children leads people to treat it like some major political statement. People's comments range from saying I am mad to a patronising "Aren't you brave?"

It is hard to believe that only a generation ago four children was considered an average or even small family. Of course, the fact that after the first one I have had home births usually confirms my insanity.

At least this time I met a woman who changed my life, or at least my pregnancy. Mary Pender, who practises in Manor Street in Dublin, supplied me with vitamins and minerals, so this time I vomited only twice and experienced no nausea after 13 weeks.

Not that being pregnant this time is plain sailing. I rapidly developed some other "minor discomforts of pregnancy". That phrase comes from Gordon Bourne, author of a standard popular text on pregnancy which used to leave me frothing at the mouth. So I stopped reading it. He airily catalogues minor discomforts which include carpal tunnel syndrome, chronic heartburn, varicose veins and other complaints unmentionable in a family newspaper. I used to wish fervently (against my basic belief system, of course) that he would be reincarnated as a mother of 10.

However, not even he thought of including maternity tights in his list of minor discomforts. Every single brand I tried rolled inexorably kneeward, and beyond if not caught in time.

My major minor discomfort this time is sciatica, which sometimes was so bad that I had to get out of bed at night in order just to turn over. A few weeks ago while cleaning up one of the kid's spills, the whole hip joint locked, leaving me unable to get up from the floor. My little four-year-old flew out barefoot into the snow-filled back garden to get Dad, yelling "Come quick! It's an emergency!"

Thank God for chiropractors, is all I can say. I could barely hobble into the Terenure practice, but walked out only faintly resembling a 90-year-old woman.

To those geniuses out there who think gender is a social construct, I have one thing to say. Have you ever been pregnant?

The weird thing is I still love being pregnant, still love small babies and think my three children are the best company in the world. The only pregnancy which broke my heart was the one where I miscarried at 11 weeks. I have three healthy children and, in comparison with that blessing, the so-and-so who referred to "minor discomforts" of pregnancy was, I grudgingly admit, probably right.

bobrien@irish-times.ie