A Letter to Kate Middleton on Her Due Date

Dear Kate,

It’s your due date today.

You are no doubt over being pregnant. The heartburn, insomnia and peeing every half hour because your bladder is the size of the diamond on Beyonce’s engagement ring; not to mention the overall sense of fatigue, clumsiness and discomfort that comes with heaving a massive sphere of extraneous flesh around on the front of your body. You are no doubt having fairly violent mood swings as well, if you are anything like I was. I remember experiencing uncontrollable feelings of white-hot rage because my husband would breathe too loudly when he was sitting next to me on the couch. I actually wanted to hurt him. I hope that William is a soft-breather. He looks like a pretty gentle guy, so I imagine that he is.

So I’ve seen and heard the endless commentary about your upcoming birth in the media and it probably feels like the entire world is skulking about in the metaphorical waiting room like an annoying bunch of distant relatives that no-one wants hanging around, a bunch of sniggering busy-bodies who won’t bugger off and leave you alone because – despite the fact that you don’t really want them there – you’re too polite to say so. God, I bet that’s annoying.

What’s also annoying is the relentless tsunami of phone calls, messages, stupid jokes, smarmy little comments and ridiculous questions like “When are you going to have the baby?”, as if you can casually finish your latte, log on to www. get-this-baby-out-now.com and make a booking to schedule it in after your French manicure at the nail salon. Trust me, I went 10 days over with my second baby so I’ve just about heard them all. 

I still remember all the phone calls and messages I got just before and during both my inductions, each one of them amping up the rage I felt at not being left alone to do what I had to do. My mum rang the hospital when I was in the middle of a very protracted pushing stage during my first induction and I recall roaring at the poor midwife who came to deliver the message that ‘YOU CAN TELL HER I AM TRYING TO PUSH THIS FUCKING BABY OUT!!”. I really did roar. Like a lion.

I mean, really, what’s with all those idiots who keep calling your husband or the hospital when you are in the early stages of labour or waiting to have an induction? What on earth do they expect you to say?

NO, we have not had the baby yet. YES, we will call you when it happens. @#$! off.

OR…

Oh wait. YES, we did actually have the baby and we decided not to tell anyone about it. We are en route to our new life in Togo right now. We’ll Skype you. Maybe. I’m not really sure if Togo has the internet.

OR…

NO, we have not had the baby yet. YES, I am in the middle of labour. I am currently hunched over the headboard of the bed, involuntarily emptying my bowels as the baby makes its way down the birth canal. Thanks for calling. @#$! off.

Anyways, enough about me. Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t shit yourself, it’s all very undignified.

So I keep seeing all these idiots talking about you, besieging the hospital you plan to labour in, judging you for your birth preferences, claiming you might be “too posh to push”. No, really. Said by a man, no less. If you are anything like me you must be laughing so hard at the thought of a man commenting on the way a woman “should” give birth that your waters might just up and break right now.

As far as I’m concerned, we need to give the phrase “too posh to push” a big kick up the fanny and send it on its way. And whilst we are at it, any man with the gall to use it should have his balls squeezed so hard he needs a waaaaaahmbulance. If any man here wishes to lecture any woman here on the best way to give birth to her child, squeeze something the size of a full-grown possum out of your arse first and then we’ll talk.

Until then you can STFU because you have NFI.

Whatever happens, Kate, I hope that you can remain in awe of the fact that your body created this incredible little person inside of you, whom you will love more than you could have ever imagined was possible. No one is going to pin a medal on you for having a drug-free, granola-bar, orgasmic birth. And if anyone judges you for using pain relief or having a c-section or squatting over an orange shag pile rug chanting “Hare, Hare Krishna” on loop they can GGF. Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do when shit gets real in labour.

Love,

Zilla.

P.S. Bet that kid is going to be a real looker.

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