Pointy bumps and ugly mammas

Thank the lord my second visit to the job centre passed off without event.

Hawkwind was nowhere to be seen, and I managed to skulk around waiting for my turn without exchanging more than a polite smile with the girl sat next to me.

The woman who sorted out my papers seemed genuinely surprised and delighted by the amount of job-searching I’d done, and didn’t even take offence when I expressed a wish not to see her again soon. And besides, it’s not all doom and gloom in Jobland: I have got a few interesting pots on the boil. I am, however, extremely keen not to put the mockers on anything, so don’t mind me if I keep schtum for now.

Anyway, there are more exciting things to think about right now: next week I have my 20-week scan – the one where they tell you whether it’s a boy or a girl – and you know what? I really can’t wait.

Of course, I’ve been speculating for months. I’m convinced it’s a boy … but then, my mother thought I was a boy right up ‘til the day I was born, so maybe female intuition isn’t a family forte.

The Baby-Daddy is sure it’s a little girl, but I don’t think that’s based on anything except a desire to be the focus of daddy’s little girl’s adoration.

No matter what, it’s fun to hear people’s theories – like if it’s a pointy bump, it’s a boy; if it’s a roundy bump it’s a girl. (Since I haven’t really got much of a bump of any sort yet, I think I’ll be in possession of the scan results before this one comes into its own…)

A friend who’s from East European gypsy stock tells me that if a woman becomes bloated and plain during her pregnancy, it’s because her baby’s a little girl and she’s leeching all the beauty from the mamma. If it’s a boy, he apparently doesn’t need any beauty, so mummy stays yummy throughout.

So far, no one’s tried swinging anything over my stomach or reading my tea leaves, but it’s surely only a matter of time.

And, gender apart, it’s nice that people are interested (even if the sudden petting of my belly was a bit alarming at first) and I can content myself with the study by somebody, somewhere that says 71% of mums-to-be correctly guess the sex of their baby. Plus, the Chinese Gender Predictor, which claims to be 90% accurate, says I’m having a boy. So that’s it.

Come on, little fella!

I have to say I’m hoping that the Baby-Daddy will change his mind and come to the scan, mostly because it’s such a thing of joy that it would be tragic for him to miss out. Slightly more selfishly, I’m hoping it would make everything seem more real to him, with the accompanying hope that he’ll become a bit more supportive.

Still, I can’t complain too much: he definitely seems to be getting his head round the idea … slowly but surely … and even if he doesn’t come good, I’ve got more than enough love to lavish on little Bubba.

Anyway, between now and next Thursday, I’ll be mounting a sweepstake to determine the baby’s sex.

You haven’t got long, so I encourage you to place your bets now. No patting, prodding or manhandling of the bump allowed…

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