Insecure summer nights

As daylight begins to stretch and temperatures start to rise, there's a great big summer lovin' party beginning to take place. And I'm not invited.

My daily routine is pretty lame these days. I commute, work, waddle home, prep lunch for the next day, eat, make tea, put washing on and finally sink into the sofa. The spark of spontaneity vanished as quickly as a blue line appeared on my pee stick. Once a rockin' woman with no ties, to a weeble with bundles of responsibility.

Most of the time I smugly enjoy my new-found life as an expectant mum. I proudly smile as I walk (slower than before) down the road and I LOVE the hangover-free mornings.

This afternoon my hub was schmoozing with work colleagues. The "I won't stay long" and "I'm leaving soon" swiftly turned into mid-evening phone silence. My girly pampering and upbeat introduction with the remote control swiftly turned into a whirlwind of insecure thoughts: 'Where is he now?' 'Who's he talking to?' And 'why isn't he home and sober like me?!'

I've never been insecure, but since resembling a weeble in joggers who tires at the thought of 'drunkeness', I've gained a slight edge. Almost seven months of soberness and experiencing slurred words, public drunk rowing and sideways swaying - I've seen and heard the worst. Let's face it - I was once one of them!

A text frenzy takes over my fingers. My newly-painted red nails have suddenly become posessed by a demon, as I type furiously to my husband's blackberry. No answer. Another message is typed and sent. No answer. Another text along the lines of 'ignore your pregnant wife at home then! Good night.' is sent. Okay... it may have been a bit stronger. Do I blame the pregnancy hormones for my emotional outburst? Or is it because I feel so left out and crossed off the invite lists?

As summer draws closer, spontaneous after-work drinks take place. Laughter fills the air, chilled wine and ice-cold lager is served up. I've sat through one too many nights sipping lime and sodas. Perhaps I'm not invited out as much now because I'm a sober bore! And I still have two more months of summery feel-good nights to go.

Just as I'm sat feeling sorry for myself and cursing my phone... the front gate opens, closes and the key is (shakily) put through the door. In walks my hub with a big smile, glassy eyes and his arms held out towards me. I don't think he's read my texts (yet), but I soon tell him how I feel after he's beckoned his puffy-eyed wife to sit on his lap. I sit (in his dressing gown) as he drunkenly cuddles and reassures me.

Ten minutes later, I'm watching him open-mouthed, passed out on the sofa. My insecure moment has passed, but I know I have two more months of excitable colleagues, friends and strangers beckoning each other to go for 'a drink' in the hazy summer evenings. I guess I'll just have to control my demonic fingers, failing that - hide my phone. Or, perhaps I should just become a closer buddy to the remote control, whilst the baby distorts my stomach.

I love you husband. Just please come home when you say you will... your pregnant wife will love you even more!

I may not be invited to the party, but I know I'm doing my little baby boy a favour if I just 'keep calm and carry on'.

Good toes: Lots of colourful salad, fruit, seeds an nuts. Oh. Yes.
Bad toes: Emotional outburst at being home alone... which leads to destroying half an easter egg and some Devonshire fudge from my holiday with the hub.