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As the weather draws in I find myself listening to one particular album in the car that until the day I die will evoke feeling in me associated with being pregnant in autumn. It feels odd that I’m not listening to it on a countdown to birth, but it still makes me feel sanguine and hopeful and reminds me that I will bring a new life into the world.

Which is not bad for a bloke with a beard and a love of vintage tractors.

I try to remind myself to remember little things about this pregnancy, despite the fact that there are a million things to distract me. In some ways it’s nice to feel the occasional kick and to almost be taken my surprise again. Oh yeah, I’m pregnant.

I’m 13 weeks now, which is just crazy talk, and we are getting to that point where you slowly start to chew over names and sleeping arrangements.

Ah yes, sleeping arrangements. Or more accurately as my friend described it, a life size game of Tetris.
You start to allow a small glimmer of hope to burn when you get to 13 weeks. You see that scan and it starts to feel a little bit more real. You see the fat belly (and that is a FAT belly) and those spindly limbs and somehow it changes something.

That haphazard collection of strangely proportioned features become so much bigger than the sum of their parts.

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