BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!! It’s cold!

The thermometer said -8C as I cycled to work this morning, and – believe me – I felt every one of those minus degrees. I thought I was supposed to spend my pregnancy feeling all hot and bothered, but in fact I spend half my life feeling … well, quite chilly, actually.

It doesn’t help that most of my really warm clothes don’t fit me anymore: since Christmas, the bump has been growing day by day and cardigans that once offered a warm haven now stretch pathetically over my beach ball belly and make me look as if I’ve stolen them from my little baby sister.

For his part, Bub has spent two or three days being an absolute hooligan, kicking and punching at all hours of the day and night. He’s getting so strong that sometimes, if I’m not expecting it when he kicks, he manages to boot my arm from its resting place on my belly. I was sitting in a meeting at work the other day and I could actually see the bump twitching and flexing. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

But I think all that wriggling must have finally worn him out: today he’s been quiet as a mouse, with only the occasional movement to let me know he’s still there.

Anyway, with or without his acrobatics, life seems to be clattering along at a rare old pace: I’m so busy I barely have time to sort out the mundane things like car insurance and doctor’s appointments and paying the gas bill. I’ll be glad when the little fella comes so that I can sit down and have a rest.

(Relax. I’m joking. I’m under no illusions about what’s to come…)

Still, I’ve noticed that since I’ve been pregnant, a funny thing has happened: despite being in literally the worse shape of my life – never before have I had the silhouette of Barbamama – I’ve never been less worried about my body.

Maybe it’s the happy hormones, maybe I’m just enjoying being pregnant, but despite my bumpy bod I think I look pretty good. Or, perhaps more accurately, I’ve stopped worrying about whether I look good or not.

Pre-pregnancy, I’d fret over every little bulge, changing my outfit five times and still leaving the house unhappy. Now I have three pairs of trousers to choose from, a limited selection of tops, and the same coat come rain or shine. And you know what? It’s great.

Clothing has stopped being something that defines me, or dictates my mood; it’s shrunk back to being a purely functional covering. And my body has stopped being something to worry about and criticise; it’s become a cosy baby-home for my little pud. And if its shape isn’t going to be winning any awards any time soon, well … so what?

The upside of this is that I feel happier than I have in years. The downside is that I notice my girlfriends’ criticisms of their bodies even more.

Now, on the whole, my girlfriends are a foxy bunch. Sure, none of them is Pamela Anderson, but each of them has a healthy and attractive body … so it seems such a shame that they can’t see it. I listen to these sassy ladies bemoan thunder thighs, chunky calves and buxom bums – all defects that, to my eyes, are non-existent.

Not that I’m judging them for a moment. I know that the very words they’re using to castigate themselves have flown from my own mouth so many times in the past.

And as I ponder this, I wonder if my beatific state of contentment will pass once my little sproglet wails into the world, leaving me prey to baby blues and self-loathing, or whether I’ll no longer be the centre of my own universe and worrying about things as trivial as the girth of my thighs will be a thing of the past.

Right now I don’t have the answer. But I do have a sneaking feeling that once the gorgeous little bundle in my belly makes his way into the world, nothing else will ever seem as important again.

It’s always when I wake up in the early hours of the morning that The Fear strikes.

No matter how ridiculous the topic, or how illogical the thought process, if there’s something bothering me, you can be sure it will wait by my bedside, ready to pounce when my defences are down. Which is usually in the dead of night – or, more precisely, at 5am, the preferred hour of insomniacs everywhere.

After an incredibly hectic weekend, in which Bub had been incredibly wriggly, dishing out kicks left, right and centre, I’d collapsed into bed ready to play our usual little game of pat-and-kick.

The game goes like this: I pat my belly two or three times, and Bub gives a good old kick in that very spot. And sometimes a few kicks more, for good measure. It’s a fun game, and we’ve taken to playing it most nights, at bedtime.

But last night, Bub wasn’t playing. In fact, he was resolutely silent and immobile in a way he hadn’t been since he properly started his kicking campaign just a week ago.

Convinced he was sleeping, I waited patiently, intermittently prodding the bump and waiting for some sort of response. But nothing. After half an hour, I must admit I was starting to worry just a tiny bit, but I pushed any negative thoughts to the back of my mind and drifted off to sleep.

Until 5am.

Lying groggy and defenceless in the darkness, I was a ready victim for The Fear. And The Fear took no time to trap me in its insidious grasp.

As I lay motionless, I became very aware that Bub was equally motionless. So I jiggled a bit. Nothing. Wobbled my belly. Nothing. Patted and poked the bump. Nothing.

Now, my rational mind told me that everyone has a quiet day – including, presumably, the tiny being in my belly. But The Fear was doing its best to convince me that all sorts of things were wrong, from the mildly unnerving to the downright terrible.

Finally, still fretting in the darkness, I did what any rational soul would do: I grabbed my phone and turned to Google for an answer… and almost immediately laughed out loud.

It turns out there are oodles of ladies out there, all desperately poking and prodding their unborn offspring when the poor little mite has the audacity to keep quiet for five minutes.

Instead of enjoying this moment of calm before the storm of sleep deprivation that will doubtless follow junior’s birth, we’re all there, shaking and wobbling and jiggling our bumps, terrified that the little one’s silence is a portent of doom … when in fact the wee soul is kicking our internal organs, or perhaps just felt like having a day off.

It’s at times like this I wish there were someone lying next to me – though I suppose that two people panicking are really no better than one.

And I’d better get used to it, as I imagine things are destined to be quiet in the romance department for quite some time to come … though hearing the dating traumas of some of my girlfriends, perhaps I should consider it a blessing: I could be forced to climb on stage and sing backing vocals to Mustang Sally at a wake, while my date’s family look on, like the old friend I met for coffee last week. It was only the third date. And, it goes without saying, the last.

Yep, despite the continued flattery of the Divine One – which is all very nice, yet clearly destined to be fruitless – things are graveyard quiet on the romance front. But I can’t complain; at least I’m spared the humiliations, the raised hopes and the inevitable disappointments.

And besides, life is good: Bub is back in fine form, and our game of pat-and-kick has resumed once more. To be honest, I always thought I’d want more from the man in my life, but it turns out that someone who kicks when I pat is pretty much all that I need.

Oh dear. Relations with the Baby Daddy have reached an all-time low.

We hadn’t spoken at all for a few weeks, then as soon as we did, we argued. And as a symbolic gesture of our mutual disgust, we’ve even unfriended each other on Facebook. Ai!

To be honest, I’m not sure if he did it or I did it. The unfriending, I mean. I know I’d thought it was a good idea, but I wanted to copy our correspondence first, in case it came in useful later on. As soon as I’d done that, I went to unfriend him, and realised we were no longer friends.

Now I can’t remember if I did it straight after our argument, or he did it the morning after. But I suppose, really, it doesn’t matter. It’s enough to know that we just don’t want to be friends.

Although on the one hand I feel dreadfully sorry about it, on the other hand, it’s a relief. Every time we talk – and by “talk” I mean “chat on Facebook”, for such are the limitations of our communication – we end up arguing, which does neither of us any good.

But even in the cold light of morning, and being as objective as possible, this time I really don’t think I’d said anything inflammatory or provocative. All I’d asked him to do was to read about the birth if he wanted to attend, which doesn’t seem to me like an outrageous request.

Of course, instead of just saying yes, he perceived it as a slight on his good nature and got all upset, telling me that women have given birth alone for years and years and nobody died, so why should I be any different, sitting there with a team of experts around me?

To be honest, I’m not remotely worried about the technical side of things. I’m just petrified that he’d come along and be combative or argumentative while I’m trying to squeeze our little sproglet into the world.

So when I said that I would need whoever was with me to be supportive, he got even more upset. Wasn’t he being supportive?

Umm ….

Anyway, he’ll surely have a perspective that conflicts wildly with mine, in which he’s the hero and I’m the villain, and fair enough to him. There are two sides to every story. But it seems our viewpoints are so very far apart, we haven’t a hope of meeting in the middle.

I really try to understand him, to see the situation from his viewpoint … but he’s not one for sharing his feelings. And he’s so angry with me that he can’t even begin to empathise with my position. He sees the very fact that he’s speaking to me as evidence of his unfailing support. So really, we’re aiming for two different things.

And so, as sad as it sounds, I’d really prefer him not to be at the birth.

Although I’d like Bub to know his daddy right from the start, giving birth is, I imagine, not an easy experience at the best of times. If I’ve got someone taking umbrage at everything I say or do, it’s going to make it a whole lot harder.

I need whoever is with me to be on my side 100%, to forgive me if I curse at them in the heat of the moment, to understand that even though thousands of women give birth every day that doesn’t make it easy, and to soothe my furrowed brow when things get difficult.

In short, I need someone who cares about me, not someone who is so angry with me that they find offence in my every word and deed.

And so, as sad as it makes me, I’d also prefer to cut all contact until the baby is born. I just don’t need the hassle. I’ve got enough to worry about: work, money, accommodation…. I don’t need to add the Baby Daddy to that list.

But it is undeniably sad. I’d hoped that even if we weren’t together as a couple, we could work together to give Bubba a good life, with parents that love him dearly, albeit from two different houses.

Now, I don’t doubt the Baby Daddy’s ability to love his son, but I do doubt our ability to have a peaceful friendship around that. Anyway, there’s no point worrying about it right now. The door is always open and I’m sure we’ll find our equilibrium sooner or later.

The good thing is that little Bub is blissfully unaware of all this. Lazing in his amniotic, temperature-controlled world there are no arguments or discomforts (beyond a slightly tight waistband), just a broadening awareness of his newly developed senses and an umbilical cord for a plaything.

Depending on who you listen to, he’s now around 25cm from head to toe (though I find it hard to believe that anything that big is lurking inside my mini-bump) and is fattening up nicely. If he were to be born in just a fortnight’s time, he’d have a 40% chance of survival.

I’m already incredibly proud of him, and I’m looking forward to being one of those insufferable mothers who’s always banging on about her baby’s brilliance. I’m sure he’ll be a little fighter, just like his mum and, despite the circumstances, I’m equally sure his daddy will love him with all his heart.

He might not have the perfect family life, but he’s going to be one lucky little Bub.

So The Big Day finally arrived.

After waiting and waiting and WAITING through days that felt like weeks and, eventually, hours that felt like days, I finally got to see my little bub again.

Although I’ve generally been pretty relaxed throughout my pregnancy, on this particular morning I’d woken early, with a sense of foreboding. I’m not sure why.

Perhaps because with no definitive movement I could categorically attribute to a tiny limb, and still with no bump to speak of, a pair of gigantaboobs and an increasing breathlessness were all I had to reassure me that Bub was still happy and developing well.

Naturally, The Baby-Daddy didn’t come to the scan. He said he had to work. Of course he did. He lives so far north that they haven’t invented days off up there yet.

But at least this time I was smart, and I didn’t bother to argue. I couldn’t see any point in upsetting myself. I just had a little sniff when I was all alone, and a quiet word with Bub, to remind my precious little bundle that I’m truly grateful for this opportunity and that I can’t wait for this little person to call me mum.

Anyway, I was fine attending the scan on my own. In theory. But all the same, I spent a few minutes combing the internet for reassurance, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that if everything was OK, surely I’d feel something by now? Surely I’d have at least the tiniest bit of a bump?

Of course, the forums were full of women who’d had a meagre bump for pretty much all of their pregnancy and had never felt a thing until they were seven months gone. But still, I couldn’t wait for the appointment to reassure me, and was glad that I had plenty of work to keep me occupied until the magic hour arrived.

Finally the hands of the clock dragged themselves past noon.

Keen to set my mind at rest, I set off for the hospital far too early. Thankfully, reception was almost empty, and I was called for my appointment ahead of time.

Settled in the chair, my belly covered in gel, I could barely speak to the radiographer, instead craning my neck to get a good view of the happenings inside the bump. At first, the tiny little body seemed so still that the panic simmered quietly inside me. Squeezed upside down and folded at a rather uncomfortable angle, the motionless little frame struck fear into my heart.

“It’s not moving much,” I ventured, my heart in my mouth.

“No,” said the radiographer, a picture of calm. “Looks like it’s having a snooze… Oh! There it goes! We’ve managed to wake it up!”

I quickly brushed away the little tear of relief that trickled down my cheek, and realised that I’d been holding my breath for far too long.

Patiently, I watched as she measured bones and checked arteries and vital organs, each time proclaiming Bub’s results to be good, very good or even excellent. She showed me the spine, the kidneys, the brain and the stomach and then finally – finally! – we got to the bit I’d been desperately waiting for: the gender.

“Aha!” said the nurse, indicating a fuzzy patch at the top of the screen. “Can you see that? That’s a little willy!”

I craned and strained my eyes to see … and yes! Yes, I could see! The Chinese Gender Predictor was right. It’s a boy!

“Oh look!” she said, “he’s put his hand on it.”

I watched as my clever little boy protected his modesty.

“Oh! Both hands!”

A proper lad, if ever there was one. All he needs is some trackie bottoms and a remote control and we’re away.

I could have watched my mesmerising offspring all day, but all too soon the nurse was wiping the gel from my belly and ushering me out of the door.

Reassured that my beautiful boy was safe and sound, I bounded obediently back to reception and sent the first of a gazillion jubilant texts trumpeting the joyful news.

A boy! A boy! I’m going to have a boy!

As good wishes flooded in from far and wide, I sent up a silent prayer that I’ll soon take on the dimensions of an over-inflated beach ball.

With no more scans due before Bubba’s birth, it may be the only way to keep me sane…

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…