Years ago, I visited a heavily pregnant expat friend living in Sao Paolo, Brazil. I was single at the time, and there was plenty about her pregnancy that I found amusing, surprising and occasionally shocking. Number one was the support stockings she wore, those great white whale numbers no less, to try and contain her varicose veins. I also wasn’t so sure about her sporting a bikini bump – surely mothers should modestly cover their bulging fertility in case people looking realised that they had, you know, been having sex. And, this was a pre-mobile phone era, my friend kept scurrying off to phone booths to call her husband about everything she did. ‘Should she buy chicken or pork for supper?’ ‘Teddy or panda bear fabric for the nursery blind?’ And even ‘We’re getting a bus home. Do you think it will be quicker than a taxi’? I laughed and laughed at the behaviour of my usually razor sharp friend. But know better know, and should be better prepared for what’s currently afflicting me.

Basically, if you happen to see my brain, can I have it back?

I’d heard about ‘preggie brain’, but hadn’t realised it sometimes inflicted such specific symptoms. In my case, it’s manifested in a complete inability to make decisions. And it crept up on me with so much stealth that it was only this weekend, when a friend pointed out what a complete ‘drongo’ (her word) I was being about whether or  not to carve a chicken, that I realised quite how hopeless I’ve become. Some stand-out examples.

• During the pre-election frenzy, when the pavements in our marginal constituency were pounded by eager politicos desperate for our vote, our prospective Tory candidate knocked on the door. I am still blushing about looking at the floor while mumbling, ‘You’ll-need-to-speak-to-my-husband, that’s-his-department’. WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT? Oh, and the Tory (quite young and handsome, if memory serves), didn’t win.
• We had friends over for lunch. Kind husband offered to preside over a bbq, but unable to get my head around the food actually needed to go on the flames, I turned him down. And then spent three days dithering over the menu. Having finally decided on what I think my grandmother might have termed a ‘cold compilation’, I spent an entire morning making two different quiches (with homemade pastry), chopping six different vegetables for a cous-cous salad, hand-churning cream and strawberries into ice cream, and whisking mayonnaise for a potato salad. And to think we could have chucked some sausages into bread. The potato salad didn’t even taste very nice. I think I even heard my husband gently sighing, ‘Helman’s’.
• Getting ready to go to the park yesterday, a friend offered to put the children’s shoes on. My mind went blank, and I stood for what felt like hours trying to work out which shoes they should wear. Crocs? Wellies? Well, it might rain. Trainers? In the end, one of the littles ended up going barefoot, while the oldest put on the toddler’s sandals.
• My sister’s  40th birthday present is nearly a week late because it’s taken me six  months to decide  what to buy. And even now, I’m racked with worry about whether I’ve chosen the right colour.

It’s all a bit embarrassing. I usually make decisions, even life-changing ones, incredibly quickly. And now I can barely work out if I want to have cornflakes or muesli at breakfast. How can this possibly give me any kind of advantage when it comes to bringing up another baby? Mother nature, what is it all about? And will normal service ever resume?