Mr Furlong and I have seven grandchildren. We are expecting the eighth. Soon.
I find the whole thing horribly nerve-wracking. With my babies, every birth was completely different to another. I expected all my children to be perfect – and they were. In those days pregnancy didn’t seem to be considered a disease. We drank, we smoked, we partied and we ate for two. My first pregnancy produced intense cravings for liver and onions which I ate every day for lunch from the take-away just round the corner from work.My second induced severe cravings for toffee apples which my poor (then) husband had to source sometimes as late as midnight. I have eaten so many toffee apples in my life I am now a toffee apple connoisseur
I suggested one of our girls have some liver during her pregnancy once, foolishly thinking it was good food, and was told that THAT was something you NEVER ate during pregnancy. It was frightfully dangerous in fact. No expectant mother in her right mind (brainwashed maybe) would drink, smoke, party or eat for two nowadays. They seem so responsible.
My first baby arrived after a party where the doctor who delivered him was attending as well. We did the twist. I remember my shoes – beautiful shoes – bronze lame with straps and stiletto heals. I got a real dressing down from the doctor – not about twisting the night away at full term, nor about the drinking and smoking, or eating for two, but about my stiletto heals which I always wore being a true child of the sixties.
He said “I really think you should wear better shoes.Those heels are going to give your feet grief when you’re fifty. You’ll have Morton’s Neuroma or dropped metatarsals and you’ll hobble around with sore feet!”
Well, funny, the kids are fine, but about fifty, my feet started killing me, until I changed to wearing flatties. He was right.