Three slices of chocolate fudge cake at midnight. Half a tin of Horlicks each time, made gooey with a few spoonfuls of water. And that mango and passion fruit cheesecake? No less than two helpings at a time. Four if there’s more. Oh yes, the superior prissiness that made me scoff at people who told me, go on, take another one – you’re eating for two, has suddenly been replaced by oh but I’m pregnant and I can eat all this and more. I’m expanding anyway, what difference is a (whole!) baguette of garlic-butter bread going to make. I’ll cross the bridge of shedding the extra kilos when I come to it, I tell myself, lovingly patting my growing tummy.

Believe me, no one is more surprised by this volte-face than yours truly. Thing is, while I’ve never gone on a diet in my life, neither have I ever allowed myself to order, let alone finish things like a double bacon, extra cheese burger or a triple chocolate brownie sundae. Even if I ever binged on ghasi prawn and appams from Sagar, I felt guilty enough to eat healthy for days afterwards. Moderation as preached by Nerissa to Portia in the Merchant of Venice has been my mantra. But stuff that drove me mad in the first few months of my pregnancy - my husband treating me like a delicate antique piece, parents asking about my health in each phone call, in-laws telling to take it easy - has now become part of my life. I’m feeling very extra special, thank you, like I’m the first and only woman to ever have got pregnant and nothing can touch me – no sickness, no wrong, no calories!

I know it’s going to be a great, crashing fall from the dizzy heights of pseudo-specialness when the bubble pops in May, but my calorie-confused brain refuses to recognize that. Instead I focus more and more on food, especially food I can’t have. It was our wedding anniversary the other day. Happily, we both forgot it – as did our families. But come weekend, we decided to “celebrate” four years of staying together and still loving the sight of each other with a quiet dinner at a French restaurant. If the health guidelines in the UK are to be followed to the letter, I couldn’t order what I wanted – raw/unpasteurised cheese, cured meat and wine. Normally, no offence to the French, that’s the food I’d turn my nose up at – no effort, no aroma, no spices, just a selection of veg, salad and bread you’re supposed to dip in melted cheese. But just because it was “off-limits”, I wanted it. I fixed my long-suffering husband, keeper of my health and well-being, with puppy dog eyes and said the magic words: cravings, darling.

Well, I didn’t topple over and die and the baby’s still kicking too. I’m tempted to say screw the dos and don’ts dogma dictated to pregnant women, especially stuff not supported by modern evidence. I’ll do my own research. I’ll lift, I’ll walk, I’ll exercise and I’ll eat. Yes I’m a bit of a pain in the proverbial. I’m allergic to being preached at. Isn’t that a valid health concern too?

(Simrat Ghuman is Head of Communications and Marketing at Anthemis Group in London. A former TV journo, she made a discovery this summer that she was making a baby. She is chronicling her experience in a series of blogs, titled Dealing With Being Preggers, for The Quint.)

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Dealing With Being Preggers: I am making a Baby!
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