(…other than the conventional way: the big tummy out front.)
* Your five year old asks your three year old to share her biscuit and as you prepare to intervene she snaps it in half and gives him half saying, "sure, here you are." Cue: teary pregnant lady.
* Your beloved one innocently flicks through a newspaper while talking to you and you have an inexplicable meltdown regarding your importance and priority.
* You bend down to try on a pair of boots (new boots, woohoo!) and find that you can't. Thankfully cool Newtown shoegirl bends down and hands boots to you and directs you to a chair, ensuring a sale.
* Any quite large tattoo you may have of frolicking medieval peasants on your lower back is now a tad larger. And frolicking peasants who were in a straight line now look a little on the turps due to new hips. (Am blaming the easy icecream and all the variations – honey and roast almond tonight – I just HAVE to try out.)
* Just about everyone you meet assumes you're about to give birth any second. Because seriously, you look like you are.
* You're cleaning (a singularly unusual personal experience) and folding baby clothes. And staring at the newborn nappies like they belong on a doll, not a baby.
* You have a labour bag (even if all it has in it are mini Snickers and mini Bounty bars – for Adam.)
* You're talking to your neighbour and sister in law and friends in the area about the middle of the night I'm-in-labour-can-you-come-and-watch-the-kids-before-Mum-gets-here plans.
* You are actually very excited to meet a new little person who will always be your youngest, who'll inevitably upset the applecart, who'll make us five, not four, and who you really just hope your husband doesn't name after a piece of Swedish furniture. (Did I mention that I agreed Adam could name the baby?)