"Beyonce My 'Pregnancy Twin'...Blech!"

Before I go off on yet another pregnancy-related tangent (sorry - but if you were growing an ever inflating beach ball which not only hindered approximately 78% of your mobility and rendered 92% of your wardrobe a no-go zone - I'm sure you'd forgive), I have to say one little thing about yesterday's post re: Little Man Dumps.

If you saw him go to bed last night, zipped up into a tiny blue fuzzy all-in-one pair of pj's, you'd understand how ridiculous it felt to even harbour thoughts of potential 'thug-dom' for a moment.  Moreover, the feedback has been overwhelmingly in favour of Dumps (no biases there then!) so perhaps I should step back a bit, stop fretting and worry about something far more potentially disturbing:  Beyonce the pregnant superstar.

Okay, here's the problem.  Every time one gets pregnant, there is undoubtedly a slew of pregnant 'celebs' also expecting, and I always joke that you get 'paired up' with whichever celeb happens to be sharing your due date.

By this I mean that said celeb is plastered across all manner of digital media, magazines, telly, and even billboards sometimes (remember Demi Moore and her infamous preggie nudie shot?), regaling the 'miracle' that is their pregnancy.  They are (inevitably) 'glowing', 'blooming', 'radiant', 'excited', and 'blossoming'.

I on the other hand...am simply...expanding.  I do not feel any of those things (except maybe the excited bit - can't wait to meet the newest member of our family - poor guy doesn't know what he's in for). Moreover, I do not have a coterie of make-up artists to plump my sallow face into something resembling a glow.

I do not have hair stylists ready to weave luxurious extensions into my hair - thus turning me into a modern day fecund Cinderella...glass slippers replaced by towering Louboutins, upon which I can perilously wiggle my way from one glamourous restaurant to another.

No.  My reality is more beleaguered housewife circa 1950 (minus the killer retro wardrobe).  I traipse (who am I kidding...more like trudge) through various supermarkets on a daily basis, arms weighed down with over-priced produce which will get turned into meals which the monsters will later refuse to even try.

I've no personal chef to ensure I'm getting a healthy balanced diet during pregnancy - no one monitoring my sometimes obscene intake of jaffa cakes, diet pepsi and sour skittles.  Just little ol' me staring daily down the barrel of an endless to-do list which mocks me at every turn, ensuring my days are spent in the most pointless, meaningless way possible...with very little that is tangible to show for it.

Meanwhile Queen Beyonce is papped in various cities around the world, strutting her long brown legs in obscene mini skirts which only she and Naomi Campbell can get away with - due to the nature of their limbs ('exotic' versus 'skanky').  Her 'bump' is draped in finest designer wear, with just enough give to prove she's not doing the 'buy a baby by surrogate' trick (thereby ensuring a lifelong enjoyment of trampolining and enjoyable intercourse with no vaginal reconstructive surgeon waving scary implements in ones nether regions...but i digress).

Despite going down mother nature's route, there is absolutely no sneaky peeking out of blubbery tum for Beyonce...no way.

On top of it all, she is parading around with what I like to call 'F.T.M.S.' (First Time Mummy Syndrome).  Gauging by the unconcealed delight she exudes at having proven fertile enough to begin personally populating the Mega-Jay-Z-Beyonce Empire, one would think she and her mega-mogul hubby had just invented the act of procreation due to their superstar genes exploding in a cacophany of life-giving wonder.

And the worst of it is that she is due in February as well.  So that means that for the next 3.5 months I have no choice but to compare myself with a young, fabulously rich, super-fit incarnation of Tina Turner (let's call it what it is), and come up unfavourable each and every time (sigh).

Me?  Bitter?  Huh.

But I'll tell you what: I bet at night, when she's holed up in some posh hotel and she strips off the sequins, the wigs, the drag queen make-up and rips off the bustier...she's just a bloated, sweat pant suited, matted (real) haired, varicose veined lass...tucking into an heaving room service plate of nachos (extra cheese) and root beer floats.

I guess it could be worse.  It could be bloody Gywneth-the-Princess-of-Goop and her mawkish macrobiotic twig limbs mocking me from the front cover of Heat Magazine each week...