Pregnant Days

Week 14: Telling Your Boss That You’re Pregnant

It’s week 14 and herself is full of energy, “Jaysus I’m full of energy Birdie… I might actually do the dishes today and some light hovering.” Light hovering is when she uses the nozzle on the room edges. There is something very satisfying when you hear a visible piece a of dirt get sucked up and then ripple against the plastic. However it isn’t proper hovering but I’ll let her off, she’s in flying form this week. No more nausea, no more bleeding gums but plenty of rancid farts and filthy dreams.

Today is the day that she tells her boss that she is pregnant. She’s been dreading this moment since we found out about the pregnancy but the bump is starting to show. It’s mind boggling to comprehend a time when a woman had to give up her job in the civil service the moment she got married. It was called the marriage bar and it only ceased to exist in 1973 in Ireland. Herself’s mother and mine and countless others were affected by that horrible law. Things have changed, thankfully, but the workplace still has a long way to go when it comes to catering to pregnancy.

Her boss can be a tad unaware with what he says. Case and point. Her best friend, Orla, used to work in the same job. After several years there she married and fell pregnant. She was having a disagreement with this boss over a particular type of approach. She worked out in the field whereas he had a MBA.

{I just want to take a quick detour to lambast that crap out of MBAs. I’ve met quite a few MBA heads in my time and they are all the same, they think they are God’s gift. Run for the hills if one of them approaches you. They pay universities thousands to talk shite that no one understands but themselves. They love coming up with new systems that are overly complicated, they love “thinking outside the box”… they also love laying people off.}

The argument went something like this:
“Frank, we can’t train up the stray dogs hanging around the flats to be guide-dogs.”
“Yes we can! It would save us so much money.”

“No Frank! Those dogs would eat the arse off a blind person never mind help them cross the feckin road.” Apparently Frank started to get a bit puce in the face at this point as he had an MBA and Orla didn’t.
“You’re getting a bit confused because of your condition, aren’t you?”
“My what?”

“Your condition,” he pointed at her bump and continued, “my wife was a bit volatile too when she had your condition.”
“What’s my fucking condition Frank?”
According to herself  it didn’t end well for Orla. He “promoted” her just before she went on leave. Her new role was official pen-pusher, she quit after her maternity leave ended. Hopefully herself’s condition won’t jar with Mr. MBA’s Q4 profitable system projections.

Pregnant Days

Week 13: Sex Obsessed Partner

“I had the most vivid sex dreams last night,” said herself at breakfast. She still retches after every second spoonful of porridge then follows it with a manic laugh. We’ve concluded to it is a bizarre pregnancy symptom or maybe the baby is trying to communicate with us. It’s amazing how you adjust to your new normal.

“With who?”

“Oh it doesn’t matter… but I now have a shooting razor blade type pain in my right nipple,” she said whilst checking the time.

“Did you experiment with bondage with some hussy?” We both were taken aback by my use of the somewhat archaic word that is hussy. I think the last time I heard it being used was by a nun in my school. The hussy was wearing a beaded necklace, only “modest” necklaces with crosses were allowed.

“It was a few people Birdie, but it doesn’t matter! Pregnancy just makes you really horny in the second trimester.”

“For other people apparently.”

“Listen let’s not fight, I’m pregnant, I’m not myself.” And she’s right, she’s not herself, she’s potentially two people which is really fecked up when you think about. You’re totally outnumbered in any argument and only asshole partners try to tell a pregnant woman that they are right. This is the one time that herself as a socially accepted excuse for wanting to eat coal whilst yearning to ride anything in leather chaps.


We met for dinner after work. I watched as herself made her way to our table. I noted her eyes being draw to multiple pert arses and revealing boobs. My partner had turned into a dirty old man.

“You’d want to reign in the auld salacious gaze there love before you get us kicked out.”

“I can’t feckin help it Birdie, I just have sex on the brain.” She started fiddling with the breadstick very vigorously until it snapped.

“You just wanked bread.”



“Now my feckin left nipple is shooting with razor blade like pian.” She took another breadstick and started fellitio on it.

“Would you feckin stop giving head to bread!”


“You’ve been transformed into some 70s porn star and I’m very conflicted if I’m honest.” On one hand happy days but on the other hand was I enough? I really can’t function on less than seven hours sleep and by the wild look in her eyes sleep was for the weak.

“Am I really that bad Birdie?” She started to caress her breasts over her dress, something that had drawn attention from the waiter which prompted him to ask, “is everything OK?”

“She’s pregnant, heartburn.”

“Ah, yes,” he nodded knowingly at me. He knew that heartburn was codeword for sex-crazed hormonal missus, “congratulations,” he added as he squeezed my arm and winked, “I recommend you start drinking espressos like us Italians.” I nodded solemnly.

“I’ll have one to go.”

Pregnant Days

Week 12: Breaking the baby news to Mam

I credit Coronation street and Emmerdale for normalising various types of sexuality for all the vintage Mammies and Daddies of Ireland. My mother is no different. Coronation street drip feeds her the modernisation of western society in portions that she can handle with a biscuit and a cup of tea.

Haley Cropper introduced my mother to her first transgender in the guise of a non-threatening woman in a red anorak. She adored her. When Haley died she was a wreck for a month.
“Why did she have to get terminal cancer birdie? Why didn’t they give terminal cancer to Norris… oh he is a dose!”

Then of course there was Zoe Tate from Emmerdale (the image in that hyperlink is symbolic of my mother’s initial reaction when I came out), she was my mother’s first taste of lesbianism so to speak. Zoe set the bar too high for me. A stunning upper class vet with a range rover.
“Why can’t you be that type of lesbian Birdie?”


It’s week 12. The week that you’re officially allowed to tell everyone your news. The week I get to overtake my mother’s soaps with a new story-line of a same sex couple on the cusp of having a family. The soaps break her in for me. After three months everything riské becomes passé.
“They’ve written in another gay dog… it’s get boring at this stage Birdie… I wish they’d write in a dominatrix.”

It took a treble whiskey for me to pluck up the courage to call her. She’s the best in the world but Christ can she come out with cutting comments, but she’s a vintage Mammy so she’s allowed to… apparently.

“Hiya Mam, so herself is pregnant!” There is silence on the other line. One minute later she speaks.
“Oh… well that’s unusual.”
“I expected a better response Mam.”
“I voted YES.”
That fecking referendum. She thinks it gives her diplomatic immunity from the LGBTQ community for the rest of her life.
“I know you did Mam, thanks again for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her defensiveness starts to wind down.
“So there you are now.” I filled myself another glass of whiskey.
“Why on earth would you want to have a child?”
“Your life will be over Birdie.”
“Mam, would you stop!”
“Anyhow, my soaps are about to start. God bless.” Her abrupt ending did not surprise me. What she really was saying was that she needed her soaps to show her the way and I’m OK with.

Pregnant Days

Week 11: Get Rich By Becoming A Parental Role Model

There is some serious money to be made out of parenting. Creating a religion used to be the easiest get rich scheme. Their hard sell has always been that the world will end on a certain date. Yet, the leader/CEO always seems to pick a date that their followers/customers will live to see… then in a panic their leader kills them for fear of them wanting their money back. The lesson to be gleaned here is that creating a religion will guarantee you some fast cash but you might have to murder people. Becoming the ultimate parental role model on social media is the best way to get rich and it’s something that I’m exploring. I’m pretty confident that I can make people feel inadequate.

Herself is a huge fan of Dandy & Birds. They are a lesbian couple in New Zealand that document their journey to parenthood via vlogs. They’re far too normal and nice for me. They don’t make people feel bad about themselves as they are the perfect parental role models. If I’m going to go the social media parental role model route I need to create something more controversial. I need to make my fans compare their lives to mine thus invoking a gnawing sensation of lacking.

To date my research has focused on celebrity parents. My theory is, every celebrity has an Unique Selling Point, or as we say in the bullshit business USP. I then take each of their USP’s to create my very own USP and ka-ching… easy peasy.

I believe that we all have role model celebrity parents that we worship privately. Publicly we don’t. Picture this, you’re in your local pub enjoying a few scoops with your mates and Kris Jenner comes up in conversation, your default setting is, “the feckin state of her kids, it’s shameful their carry on… she’s really failed as a mother.” Whereas secretly you’re saying, “That Kris Jenner one is a bloody genius! How the fuck can I commodify my offspring so that I never have to work again?”
Kris Jenner’s USP is the lip-gloss pout. I must apply lip gloss to our future baby and teach it to pout.

Then there’s Posh and Becks. You look at them with a mixture of envy and fuck you. But whether you like it or not, they have become inspirational role models to many couples. Sexy David Beckham has become a great parental resource. He’s helped guide countless clueless parents with his stance on religion. “I definitely want Brooklyn to be christened, but I don’t know into what religion yet.” Then he made some parents feel better about themselves for neglecting their children, “My parents have been there for me, ever since I was about seven.”
David’s USP is aspirational sayings. I must state something spiritual in my status updates like, “I’m so blessed to have a perfect life #dreamsdocometrue.

But what about lesbian celebrity role model parents? All I could think of was Rosie O’Donnell and Melissa Etheridge… now that’s a shit-show of drama or are they just keeping it real?
Their USP is that they both have mastered the element of surprise which has to be admired. I must marry, then divorce and then remarry herself within a year. I must also have a love-child in China.

But the pinnacle of parental role models has to be Gwyneth Paltrow. She has mastered the art of making parents feel shit about themselves. She’s so good at it that people actually pay $1500 to listen to her talk about how she balances being a working mother. She is my role model God that I seek to emulate.
Her USP is making shit up that has no scientific basis. I must create a face mask for babies out of yoghurt and seeds and say that it will boost their IQ by 100.

If you want to feel incomplete as a parent I urge you and your friends to start following me on social media. In time I will document my perfect life on Instagram. By 2019 I will have my own baby wear clothing line that you’ll probably never be able to afford.