A Royal bebe to be

I woke up on Tuesday morning to the splendid news that my favourite duchess is with child. At first I was slightly irritated she hadn't called me herself but then I remembered that she doesn't have my number. Nor my name. Such a shame. Throughout the morning my phone beeped, inbox pinged and my twitter feed filled up with commentary on the royal bebe in waiting, or indeed bebes as many are speculating, and I have to admit my heart sunk a little. And not just because I didn't hear the news from the royals themselves.

I am thrilled that a baby is on Will and Kate's immediate horizon. The blessing of a baby is something I'm reminded of regularly in the blissful, albeit sleep-deprived, bubble from which I'm writing.(From this bubble I'm also often reminded of the breathtaking ability of a certain toddler to mimic a terrorist who is zealously committed to holding her subjects parents hostage but that, my dear readers, is a post for another day).

Having children is something I wish upon anyone for whom the experience appeals and Will and Kate have both expressed such a desire. News they're expecting is joyful, lovely and exciting so why the sinking heart you ask?  I feel dreadful that Kate is so ill and I'm a tad devastated that their happy news emerged the way it has. The trouble with my imagined royal friendship is that I feel oddly protective of them. And dour as it might seem, right now, they have my sympathy.

The early weeks of pregnancy are precarious and peculiar enough without being violently unwell or heavily scrutinised. I don't think it's uncommon for even the least queasy pregnant woman to wish, even temporarily, she could just sit out the first loong 12 weeks of gestation without having to stage all manner of masquerades to hide the speck of life inside. Pretending to sip wine when in actual fact you're struggling to stomach lemonade, fronting up to work with your regular enthusiasm, finding enough foundation to mask the grey pallor discolouring your skin, assembling outfits that hide any sign of a bump and generally participating in normal life, is quite exhausting in those early months when, really, all you want to do is sleep. 

Imagine being one of the most visible, photographed women in the world during that strange time? Then, add in not just mild nausea but illness so severe that it requires hospitalisation, which in turn means your secret is out. To the entire world. Instead of enjoying even 12 weeks knowing your secret is safe in the privacy of your own marriage, news programs and betting agencies alike are speculating as to whether you are 8,9,10 or 11 weeks along. And to fill time  they're also using your public schedule to guess where the new life may have been conceived. All of which they're doing while camped outside your hospital room. It's enough to make a woman violently ill. 

So while I am overjoyed that my favourite royals are in the family way I am sad that it has come out this way. A private pregnancy was never going to be possible but I do wish their plans to share the news with their families on Christmas Day had been possible. Not just because it would have been on their own terms but it would have bought them another month of privacy. Which would have saved us all another month's worth of magazine covers running a variation of the story that Kate is pregnant. Because not even their most loyal friend, ok fan, wants that.