​The Second Trimester…

Everywhere you turn, there’s a different pregnancy myth coming your way;

-If you carry high and wide, it’s a girl
-If you carry low and narrow, it’s a boy
-You get heartburn? Then the baby will be born with lots of hair

But my personal favourite is the one they tell your hubby;
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-Just wait till she gets into the second trimester, she’ll be ripping your clothes off faster than a teenage girl whips her knickers off at a One Direction concert.

Aaahhh… The infamous ‘Second Trimester’…

It’s that magical turning point in any pregnancy. Those 12 or so weeks where everything is supposed to click into place, you feel like a teenage girl again, belly blossoming, the glow, the thick luxurious hair, you become the magical pregnancy unicorn you’d always dreamed you’d be… a pregnancy unicorn with the libido of a teenage boy. Your inner porn star is supposedly released, and suddenly you’re jumping your hubby’s bones faster than he can blink. Only, for so many of us, it doesn’t happen. Over here, we’re half way through the second trimester of our third pregnancy, and my hubby is still (not so) patiently waiting for the horny unicorn to come prancing in. The poor bugger has actually been waiting for the horny unicorn since 2012. You know what they they say though? Good things come to those who wait… Soz honey.

I mean, come on! It's the SECOND TRIMESTER! The morning sickness 'should' be gone [unless you’re like me in my first pregnancy, still tossing my cookies in the throes of labour…], the baby bump is still cute and manageable, even if every Tom, Dick and Betty is telling you how huge you are. I mean, obviously for most of us, the old fashioned way was how the baby made it’s way in there in the first place… but for me, once the hormonic possession takes place, the idea of a roll in the hay with your co-babymaker, conjures feelings similar to that of being poked in the eye with a rusty nail.

Now, this is a topic that I’ve been deeply researching, particularly since entering the second trimester for the third time… and by researching, I mean having a cuppa and a good old sex chat (don’t say you don’t do it) with the gal pals… because this is actually the most reliable source of information (take that wikipedia). I’ve since discovered that it seems we’re actually pretty split down the middle. Half of us become the greatly sought after ethereal sex goddesses during pregnancy, the other half of us become whatever the opposite of that is… Contracting, bulbous hippos, sleeping on a fort of pillows, devoid of any desires other than devouring a jar of olives while watching Buffy for the 135, 342nd time.

[Upon re-reading that last paragraph, I realise that I may have been a little narrow (read personal) in my description, but insert whatever analogy you like.]

From what I can deduce from my extremely well rounded, and scientific research, the prowess of said Goddess/Bulbous Hippo prior to getting knocked up, isn’t necessarily in line with your pregnancy bedroom antics post sperm and egg collision. It’s like a sexual Russian roulette. Some of us are destined for a fall from grace, while others can expect to rise up like a Phoenix out of the bedroom ashes to burn brightly…

​Maybe baby number four?