The world held it’s breath last night, (or early this morning, depending on where you live) as the word spread that the Duchess of Cambridge had been admitted into the hospital in early labour.
Congrats goes to William and Kate, and big brother George, on the safe arrival of their baby girl!
And that, folks, is exactly why I’m so glad I’m not Kate.
I mean, think about it:
When the average woman gets close to their due date, they have well-meaning, (and sometimes just flat-out nosy) family, friends and neighbours starts getting more and more calls. “Any neewwwwws?” the person trills. I was always tempted to let out a massive groan, and say, “The head’s crowning…” and hang up. I never did though, mainly because my husband learned to keep the phone away from me in the last days of pregnancy. Probably had something to do with me growling and uttering threats of death and dismemberment when the phone rang. It’s so much worse when you go overdue. The s-called jokes, like, “You’re just being selfish, keeping that baby to yourself!” “Hurry up and have that baby already!” like the pregnant woman has any actual control. Cause that’s what EVERY woman wants, at the end of her pregnancy: to make it last LONGER. Most women I know, myself included, were secretly afraid they were going to be pregnant forever, and have to get an appliance dolly top wheel their bellies around. Every day that they didn’t go into labour they were disappointed, frustrated, and freaking TIRED.
Then there’s Kate. The whole freaking world was on Royal Crotch Watch. Paparazzi, regular newsies, people on the street, all watching her for any indication she might be going into labour. “Oh! She grimaced! Is that a contraction?” While Kate’s thinking, “I want chocolate cake. A whole damn cake. And to sit down. And pizza.” And probably wondering how much royal protocol it would be breaking if she gave the next reporter that came near her a camera enema. “Give birth to that, you bastard! There’s your exclusive!” There were betting pools on when she’d finally give birth. the whole damn world was salivating, circling like hungry vultures, waiting for the Royal Crotchfruit to emerge.
Frankly, if she’d snapped and started beating press members with her purse, there’s not a woman on the planet, pregnant or who ever has been, that would’ve blamed her in the slightest.
As if that’s not all more than enough to deal with, there’s also the in-laws issue.
mean, you think you have in law issues? Let’s take a look at Kate’s. Her father-in-law had a long term affair during his marriage to your mother-in-law, details of which are all over the news, including how he wanted to be his mistress’ tampon. Your mother-in-law, a much beloved public figure, dies in a tragic car accident. Father-in-law then marries Ms. I-Wish-I-Were-Your-Tampon.
And, oh, by the way, your grandmother in law is also the freaking Queen. Literally. Steeped in protocols, tied to a forma, traditional way of doing things. How the heck do you deal with, “We’re our own family now, and will make our own traditions, and do things our way.” when you’re dealing with the flipping QUEEN?! How do you tell the head of your COUNTRY, “Gee, sorry, we’re doing our own thing, please mind your own business.”? Her face is on your MONEY, how the hell can you tell her she doesn’t get a vote in what you do?
Not even the baby’s name is considered a decision just for the couple. The public has also placed votes, and bets, and apparently, so has the Queen.
Personally, I rather hope that they name their baby girl, “Diana”. Wouldn’t that make Chuckie and the Gorilla…errr…I mean, Charles and Camilla just choke on their tea and crumpets?