I have just officially become a New Age Hippy Earth Mother Type.

Well, perhaps not quite.

I bought two books on hypnobirthing today, then decided I was going to get properly into it and try all the suggested “exercises,” unlike with the normal self-help, self-improvement tomes which I just read, nod head occasionally whilst maintaining high degree of cynicism, then toss to one side and ignore (hello that book How To Be a Man Magnet which I once inadvisably bought and which then remained hidden under the bed for the next five years before I finally smuggled it into a charity shop.  For the record, being a “man magnet” involves wearing a white blouse undone to a critical point and tossing one’s hair at every opportunity).

I have just “woken” from my hypnotic state after listening to a 33 minute long recording of someone giving soundbites such as “trust your body” and “relax” over and over again in what I call the Voice of Yoga Nidra.

Yoga Nidra is something we had to do on that yoga retreat that I went to in Ireland last year.  It involved lying very still and trying not to laugh while the Voice of Yoga Nidra told us we were variously walking through a forest, diving into a lake with a giant crystal in it and finding our inner goddess.  Needless to say I spent most of it intermittently shaking with laughter and fighting the urge to scratch various parts of my body when I was supposed to be staying still.

Fortunately, this time I was in the comfort of my own home, so didn’t have to keep up appearances in front of a room full of people who were all Taking It Very Seriously.  I was even able to reply to a text message halfway through.  I’m pretty sure that’s not supposed to be allowed.

Anyway, the text message was from my mother.  Somewhat symbolic, I’d say, since she has spent the last thirty years telling me I will “definitely” need a Caesarean, and I’m now trying to undo those thirty years of negative messages about my body’s capabilities via the rather pathetic medium of listening to a download about relaxing and trusting my body.

Anyway, my mother may be right if the calculations of various random people at work about the size of my bump are anything to go by.  It seems that not a day goes past without someone commenting about how big I am.  This is usually followed by a concerned look when I gleefully tell them that the sperm donor was a 10lbs behemoth.  Still, not much I can do about that now.  Except possibly stop eating and maybe take up smoking as a food substitute, but I don’t think either of those are recommended.

Just have to “trust my body” I suppose.