The morning after my Beloved Husband and I had our first baby bonk, I called my Best Friend who works in the High Echelons of Government and told her that it could be a matter of minutes before I was in The Family Way.  Then I felt compelled to call my sister.  If the family was going to be increase in size then it would be rude not to forewarn its current youngest member in case she felt displaced.

Two days later, having thoroughly researched early pregnancy symptoms on the internet, I called my Irish Doctor Friend (female) and broke the news that I was indeed, “trying”.  If anyone was likely to give excellent medical advice when it came to distinguishing spotting from a period, it was her.  And in the pub that I night I broke the news to my Greek Doctor Friend (also female), just in case I needed a second opinion.

The following weekend, at a wedding, my Teacher friend (female) cornered me and asked me, are you having sex in order to create a baby because I am.  It’s soooo that time of life when we all get married and it’s like completely obvious what happens next.  You’ve been married, what, seven months?  Come on, spill! So I told her.  Along with my Fundraiser Friend (also female) who had interrupted the conversation by saying what are you two talking so secretively about?  Is it babies?  I bet you are. Pause.  You are!  I so told Hilary you were!  You are!! We were.

Then a week after that I called my Pregnant Friend (now Mother Friend) because if I was going to join the Club then she should know, I mean It was going to happen any minute, right?  And then I got an outraged call from Owns Her Own Business Friend who said that Pregnant Friend had told her the news and don’t you remember that flaming sambuca night in Islington when we blistered our mouths and absolutely promised we’d start trying at the same time?  Blister sisters?  Remember?

So, only a few weeks in and my eight girlfriends knew exactly when and how much sex I was having with my Beloved Husband.  Right? Wrong.  Their husbands knew too.  And probably my girlfriend’s other close girlfriends.  By my calculation:

8 girlfriends + 8 husbands / partners + approx 16 random friends (based on each girlfriend having two close friends they might bother to tell) = 32 people, also known as 64 eyeballs on the results of my regular sex sessions.

I had no problem with these numbers in the first few weeks.   At the time I thought that telling someone you were trying to conceive was a bit  like telling them you were going to get a Brazilian bikini wax for the first time:  Wait a few weeks for an appointment, experience  some mild anxiety and pain but BOOM, 30 minutes later and your life is changed forever.

Little did I know I’d be in the waiting room at the baby making salon for more than six months, during which time five of my eight girlfriends would by-pass me on the way to the therapy room, emerging soom after, all halo like and pregnant.

Feeling desperate at the thought that I’d be the one left decaying in the waiting room, like this scene from Beetlejuice,

I consulted The Wisdom of Age aka My Mother and Mother-in-Law.

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