I don't want my daughter to know how I felt when pregnant with her

There’s precious little I enjoy more than taking a trip down memory lane with my seven-year-old daughter.

From recalling her first words to recounting her excitement every time Daddy arrived home from work, time spent reminiscing with Grace is always time well spent.

Until she wants to go even further back, that is.

Until she wants to explore the months leading up to her arrival, I mean.

Understandably eager to get a snapshot into Mummy and Daddy’s life before her big arrival, my little girl will often ask probing questions which unfortunately bring certain memories rushing back to me.

“Did you know I was a girl before you met me?” she’ll ask, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Did Daddy talk to me in your tummy the way he did with Joshua?” she’ll ask while idly flipping through a picture book.

“Did I know you were my mummy and daddy before I met you?” she’ll wonder as she traces her finger across the stomach which now boasts soft rolls, evidence of her and her brother’s presence.

I struggle to answer her questions, much and all as I wish I could.

I wish I could sit her down and show her photos of a beaming mummy clutching her burgeoning bump.

I wish we could flick through scrapbooks I had made of her nine-month journey inside me.

But I can’t because for the first eight months of my pregnancy I barely acknowledged the child growing inside me.

I attended pre-natal appointments and I looked after my health in order to bare a healthy baby, but can I say I bonded with Grace before I met her? No.

I struggled ferociously with my first pregnancy.

I thought I was too young, I thought I hadn’t established myself properly and honestly, it just wasn’t on the agenda for myself and her dad yet.

While this is undoubtedly the case for many women, they soon accept the situation and adapt to their changing circumstances.

I didn’t.

Well, not immediately anyway.

Instead of basking in my pregnancy, I viewed my bump as somewhat of a nuisance and instead of celebrating my newly shiny hair and glowing skin, I focussed solely on my swollen feet.

Put simply, I struggled to conjure any enthusiasm for the whole thing.

I wanted to meet Grace, but I wanted to do it without the nine-month process in between. I simply couldn’t take to pregnancy and as a result, I struggle to conjure happy memories of that time.

I was constantly worried, always anxious and spent hours fearing the future.

It wasn’t until my eight month when I felt an inkling of a connection with my little girl.

Lying across the couch on wet Thursday evening with a mountain of cushions supporting my lower back, I suddenly saw a vision of a shy, but smiling toddler pushing herself into the room on a small trike.

I knew it was Grace and suddenly everything fell into place.

When Grace asks me about this time, I focus solely on my final weeks carrying her which seems to satisfy her seven-year-old curiosity, but I fear for the time when she wants to know more.

I worry about the moment she’ll ask how I learned I was pregnant, what my first scan was like and why there are next to no photos of my first pregnancy and dozens of my second.

I’ll only be able to apologise for my attitude to the process and hope my desire to meet her without having gotten to know her while inside me will outweigh everything else.