I took a deep breath. “You will be fine,” I told myself firmly. “This will not be like last time. You can do this.” My fingers trembled slightly, but other than that, I was proud of how calm I was, and so, I started my consult with the great and powerful Google.

I know, I know. Any pregnant woman who Googles anything deserves what she gets. If the baby books and magazines are the dire prophets of doom, the internet is one of the four horsemen of the pregnancy apocalypse (along with birthing horror stories, unsolicited advice and strangers touching your stomach).

In my defense, I needed help. I had been told time and time again, get everything sorted out as soon as possible. Start buying your baby stuff now. Get the nursery ready. Get everything done. Have you packed your hospital bag?

Now time is running out for me – I only have months left, and I still do not have a pram.

I envisioned many things I would freak out over when I fell pregnant, and to my credit, I’ve managed to panic over all of them, but the one thing I overlooked was the pram issue. After all, it’s a pram – what is there to it? It has wheels and carries a baby. But before I took Himself, and his credit card, to shops, I figured I’d better gather a bit of information first.

“Just buck up and do it,” I told myself firmly as I set out to research prams.

It’s difficult now to imagine those blissful days when the only things that I knew existed were basic prams and car seats. Now I find myself pouring over page after page of travel systems, strollers, prams, buggies, joggers, isofix bases, adjustable car seats. I frantically tried to find a foundation from which to start my search. “Safety. Yes, that’s most important,” I hissed at the computer, jabbing away at the keys. “Safety first,” screamed website after website. “Get the safest car seat. Get a safe pram!”

“But what makes it the safest?” I yelled back. The websites all fell silent; refusing to give up the secret of which one was actually safe, comfortable and didn’t cost the same as my car. My eyes glazed over as I pushed through page after page telling me that travel systems were wonderful, and the worst decision I could make. That a car seat that clipped into a pram would be amazing, and make my life hell. That this pram was worth every cent, and horrendously overpriced. That that travel system was the only thing to buy if you love your kid, and you’re a gullible fool for buying it. But no one would tell me which one was actually safe.

“We can do this,” I murmured as I led Himself into the baby store. “This time we’ll talk to an actual human being and get the right information.”

“What are you looking for?” asked the nice young salesman as we circled the pit of prams.

“Safety!” I knew the answer to that one.

“This is the one for you,” replied the salesman. “Everything you need and want in a pram.” I threw Himself a triumphant look; talking to real person had indeed solved our problems.

Then I looked at the price.

For that price I might as well renovate my house and Slytherin Baby and I could live in luxury, never leaving it.

“It’ll be ok,” I reassured Himself two hours later as we entered the second baby store. “We now know what we want; we’re just comparing prices.”

“What are you looking for?” asked the nice young salesman.

“That one,” I answered confidently, pointing.

“Really? Are you sure? Do you want these features? And if you don’t have isofix in your car, it’s not safe to attach with a seatbelt. And if you’re looking for the following list of things, then this is not a good car seat you. You want to look at this one instead…”

This article was written for and originally posted on the BabyYumYum website here https://babyyumyum.co.za/in-a-spin/

I’ve always loathed the way we encase childhood in rigid gendered roles. Whenever Himself and I find ourselves in a toy store Himself is treated to a tirade of feminist rage.
“Look at this! It’s a little pink iron and a little pink stove and a little pink broom, all in an aisle that is actually labelled ‘Girls’. We are brainwashing our little girls to think that girls are the ones who do the housework before they can even read!”
Himself idly picked up a little iron. “You never played with these things, did you?”
“Of course not, – why do you ask?!”
“No reason. No reason at all.”

So, in a breath-taking sweep of hypocrisy that you can only ever get away with when you’re pregnant, I’m desperate to know the gender of my child.
(In my defence, I will never allow a little pink iron to cross my threshold, no matter what the gender.)

I know (now) that you’re not supposed to have a gender preference, so my excuse is that I need to know the gender in order to choose a name. Not that I’m freaking out about choosing a name. Not at all. After all, there are baby name books, all 900 pages of them. I just need to find a name that my child will have to live with for the rest of its life. A name that will always be suitable, that’s easy to pronounce and spell, that’s unique but not weird. I just need to find a name that I love, not just like. Like “life-long-commitment love” not “we’re good friends love”. No problem. I’m pretty calm about it.

Then there’s also the fact that I would quite like to dress my child in something other than grey. I think the same people who design women’s clothing design baby clothes. I can just see a bunch of men sitting around a massive boardroom scratching their heads, “What is it that women want from clothing?”
Women around the world: “Pockets!”
Men around the boardroom table: “They’re such a mystery.”
Women around the world: “Jeans that fit adult, human women!”
Men around the boardroom: “So subtle.”
Women around the world: “Baby clothes that aren’t aggressively pink, blue or grey!”
Men around the boardroom: “I guess we’ll never know.”
And so, baby clothes continue to be sold only in pretty princess pink, superhero blue or I’m-in-the-middle-of-a-pronoun-crisis grey.
And women’s pockets remain resolutely sewn shut.

“Are you going to have a gender reveal party?” asked the best friend over tea, one week before the big scan; the scan when everyone else I’ve spoken to has gotten to see the gender.
“A gender what?” spluttered my mother.
“It’s a party where you reveal the gender of the baby to the guests.”
“Oooh…” My mother looked very relieved.
“You can bake cupcakes and put the icing in the middle,” suggested the best friend.
“I can do what now?”
“Oh yeah. Maybe your husband could bake cupcakes…?”

So it was with great excitement that we walked into the doctor’s room. At least I was excited. Himself, who has in fact read some of the parenting literature, refused to say that he had a preference. I knew when I married him that I was marrying a smart man.

And, of course, the baby was sitting with his/her/its legs folded.

“That’s your kid,” muttered Himself.
“What?”
“The way it’s sitting – you always sit with your legs folded like that!”
“Well,” murmured the doctor, “will you look at that?”
“Is that?”
It really was. The little blighter waved at the camera and gave mom and dad a big thumbs up.

“Do you know what you’re having?”
“Oh yes. It’s definitely a Slytherin.”