There is no '12-week rule'

The first thing you get when you go to your GP and say that you’re pregnant is a calm congratulations, and then a reminder that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. Not exactly fireworks.

There are reasons for this, of course. First of all, it’s true, and most people are not aware. And maybe, maybe, when you have your first miscarriage, knowing that it happens all the time can help you deal with it differently and stop you from blaming yourself. But this is part of a much bigger picture, and, the way I see it, quite a problematic one.

When Victoria, the Crown Princess of Sweden, and her husband Daniel announced the other day that they are expecting, everyone seemed to have an opinion (quite amusing, considering the number of Swedes that are critical of the monarchy). Many opinions were more or less identical versions of Peter Wolodarski’s – the Political Editor in Chief of one of the biggest liberal dailies, who boasted about the fact that he refused to change the plan for the editorial leader spread in order to write about the big news – which pointed out that it seemed a bit risky to make a big deal out of it at such an early stage in the pregnancy.

It’s the idea that it’s risky that leaves me feeling a bit confused. As if it’s only really risky once you say it out loud: if you pretend nothing’s happened, no one’s going to get hurt.

Pregnancy books all say that it’s up to you when you start telling people about your good news, and that many people choose to keep it a secret until after the first trimester, since the risk of miscarriage decreases significantly then. As a couple with no previous experience of pregnancies, you get a pretty clear message: if you go and tell the world you’re pregnant and you end up miscarrying, don’t say we didn’t warn you.

But this fear of jinxing it is built on the idea that we shouldn’t share painful experiences, and that if you do, it’s a little bit embarrassing: you’re a failure, and you’re putting everyone else in an awkward position. What more is, it completely disregards the fact that there are no guarantees. If we are so scared of having to grieve publicly, what about when the unexpected happens? Should we have to apologise for going through hell? Should we actually feel GUILTY?

We live in a world where whoever is happiest wins. Subsequently, we live in a world where happiness must be measured, because otherwise we’ll never know just how well we’re doing, and hence we’re constantly chasing points: partners, houses, careers, promotions, exotic holiday trips, babies. It’s like life is a never-ending merry-go-round where every spin gets better and better, until we’re so manic and everything’s so shiny that we can’t even see that the sun is shining.

I don’t think true happiness equals constant elation, and I don’t think make-believe surface-level happiness does anyone any good. Whatever they tell you, there’s no right or wrong time to tell people you’re pregnant, there are no guarantees, and there certainly isn’t any ’12 week rule’. If you choose to wear your heart on your sleeve, and your grief with it, I hope that the people around you will carry you through and admit that life has its ups and downs – not turn a blind eye, think ‘I told you so’, and wish you’d put on a brave face and kept your embarrassing misery to yourself.

Baby on board - shout it from the rooftops!

“I like to think I’m a fairly tolerant person. I’m not, obviously, but I still like to think it. In truth, as I get older the list of things that disproportionately annoy me gets longer. Grammatical errors. Tourists who walk too slowly down busy London thoroughfares. Pregnant women who wear “Baby on board” badges when travelling on public transport. That kind of thing.”

I read the first paragraph of Elizabeth Day’s column in The Observer last weekend and thought: I like her; she’s a bit like me. Because not only am I a notorious grammar stickler, but I used to think exactly that – in fact, I still feel a bit like that – about those stupid badges.

Still today, I refuse to wear one. Despite finding out that the back pain and exhaustion that comes with pregnancy can turn up way ahead of the neat little bump, nine weeks on from being diagnosed with pelvic girdle pain and spending a week completely housebound with pain, I still don’t wear one.

What is it that the ‘Baby on board’ badge says that’s so offensive? Does it communicate weakness? Is it something about the blatantly ticking biological clock that our career-minded society can’t stomach?

A nice, middle-aged lady stood up as I got on the tube the other day and gave me her seat. Then she smiled and said, “You should get one of those badges. You’re only very tiny, and people can’t tell.” I’m sure it came from a good place, yet I felt attacked. After all, she clearly could tell, couldn’t she?

“You’re only very tiny,” what does that mean? Is it a compliment, meaning that I’m skinny (in which case it’s a lie)? Does it mean I don’t actually look that pregnant after all (in which case it feels a bit like a slap in the face)? The bump will bloody grow, won’t it? And, as much as I appreciated her giving me her seat, who is she to decide whether or not I choose to publicise my current state in order to get comfortable during my commute, and how I choose to do so? Is it really that embarrassingly awkward for people to stare at my belly for a few seconds to try to figure out what’s really going on, and if so, is that my fault? I’m not moaning, am I? Or am I ruining the rush-hour peace with my sheer presence?

Of course she’s got a point. Elizabeth Day may be a fantastic writer with plenty of self-awareness and an ability to laugh at herself, but at the end of the day it’s not the middle-aged woman on the tube who is pathetic for thinking that a simple badge might help. Maybe I should learn to laugh at myself too, and get over what seems like nothing but a superwoman complex.

(By the way, a clearly blind woman with a walking stick got on the bus this morning. I waited for a second, but no one, not a single person, gave up their seat. So I got up. You know, I’m only very tiny, after all. But what do they want from her? A “Watch out! Blind person!” badge?)