From DINK to... Diapers? A Journey

A few months ago, though it feels like a lifetime now, my husband and I were debating why we actually wanted kids. Life as a DINK (Double Income, No Kids) couple was pretty peaceful. Why on earth were we inviting a hurricane into our sanctuary?

To be honest, the sight of children doesn’t quite a spark joy for me. Their public meltdowns are mostly just a headache, and I’ve often caught myself unintentionally rolling my eyes at embarrassed parents struggling to contain their screaming toddlers. I never wanted to be "that person". Between being a chronically light sleeper and prone to migraines at the drop of a hat, the "baby lifestyle" felt like a direct threat.

Fast forward to today, and the irony is not lost on me. I’m officially in my ninth month, groaning from pelvic pain every time I roll over in bed and frantically buying newborn essentials online. And no, this wasn’t an accident. It was a deliberate, fully planned decision fuelled by my husband’s deep-seated desire for fatherhood. I have plenty of maternal instinct when it comes to dogs, but I can’t say the same for human babies. At least, not yet. Let’s see if that’s about to change.

The road here wasn't easy. The pre-pregnancy phase was a whirlwind of the usual fertility tests, scans, medications, and injections. At one point, I was on the verge of tears, wishing that if this was going to happen, it would happen naturally—not as some clinical assignment under the constant watch of my gynaecologist. Once you hit thirty, it’s like the world hands you an hourglass and won't stop pointing at the sand. That quiet "someday" suddenly turns into a megaphone shouting, "It’s now or never!"

Eventually, after a month of the grind, I hit my limit and stopped the hospital visits. I assumed life was simply returning to "normal". But not long after, when my period was late, I didn't think much of it; after all, that was just a standard side effect of my PCOS. One morning, I took a home test with total confidence that I’d see that familiar, solitary line.

But this time, the universe had other plans...

If I had to describe my trimesters exactly, the first was a total blur of second-guessing and misery. I spent it in a low fog, questioning my decision, clashing with family, and feeling frustrated that no one truly "got" me. I even found myself shouting at my former landlord for withholding extra from our security deposit.

Between the constant nausea, vomiting, mood swings, and relentless acidity, I couldn't even trust my own senses. I ended up purging half the items in our house, discarding everything from fragrances to spices that offended my newly hypersensitive nose and taste buds. Even the aroma of my neighbours’ cooking could send me into a rage. To top it off, my headaches reached a brutal peak. Since I was barred from taking anything except the ‘not-so-useful’ paracetamol, I found myself draining my bank account on professional head massages just to survive the day.

Amidst all this, I owe an immense debt of gratitude to my husband and mother-in-law for putting up with me during this phase. I was truly at my worst!

Speaking of my husband’s desire for fatherhood, I’ll never forget the "car incident". He has always been deeply passionate about his car. Back when we were courting, he wouldn't even let me bring an ice cream cup inside, terrified that a few stray crumbs might ruin the interior.

Then came the first trimester. He had just gotten the car deep-cleaned a few days prior. Without realising the risk, he turned on the AC, and the sudden scent triggered me instantly. I ended up throwing up right there in his pristine car. The man who once feared an ice cream drip didn't even flinch. He wasn't worried about the stink inside; he was only worried about me. Seeing such a stark contrast to his usual "car rules" made me realise just how much he was already committed to this new chapter.

The second trimester finally brought some colour back to my life. My mood improved, and I was able to travel to my hometown, though I had to go against my doctor’s orders to do it. Mind you, doctors always prefer to play it safe, especially after a minor complication I had early on. But I managed to convince my family that the psychological toll of being housebound was a far greater risk than a flight.

As the nausea and headaches finally subsided, my appetite peaked. I started eating quite a lot—almost as if to compensate for the first trimester—to the point that I put on a considerable amount of weight in just a month, much to the concern of my doctor.

If the first trimester was a fog and the second was a breather, the third was a lockdown of my own making. Mobility became a genuine struggle due to the mounting pressure in my lower body. Between the aches and the insomnia, my daily world began to shrink, mostly because I needed to be within ten feet of a loo at all times.

Unfortunately, navigating public toilets is often a nightmare for women, even more so when you’re expecting. Despite the best efforts of the poor janitors, the way people use them makes them impossible to trust. To be better safe than sorry, I eventually stopped venturing out altogether.

This physical confinement, combined with a sudden lack of personal and professional goals (save for everything surrounding the pregnancy), really aggravated my OCPD and my difficulty in delegating household chores. With no other outlets for my energy, I directed all my focus toward the house. My parents had moved in to help, yet I found myself bickering with them like a demanding boss, obsessing over where things were placed and the exact standard of cleanliness. I was caught in a total paradox: I desperately needed their support, but I was simultaneously triggered by the way they did things.

Adding to the chaos were the constant somersaults happening inside me. The gentle flutters had evolved into powerful kicks and rolls that felt like a tiny gymnast practising for the Olympics at 3:00 AM. It was a strange, rhythmic reminder of the "hurricane" about to arrive.

This left me in such a conflicting state of mind. One moment, I’d be mourning my carefree days, feeling a sharp pang of envy towards my DINK friends and missing the luxury of a calm evening and a cocktail. But in the next, the 'nesting' instinct would kick in; I’d suddenly be meticulously preparing every corner of the house to ensure the little one had all possible comfort.

Amid these shifts, a few things remained the same. While a few people were genuine saviours, I also became a magnet for unsolicited advice and "parenting horror stories". I knew this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, but did I really need the "reality check" about someone's kid eating poop or launching an iPhone off a balcony?

The digital world was even worse. If I made the mistake of clicking on one baby video, the algorithm would immediately conspire against me. Suddenly, my phone was bombarding me with unrelenting content—ranging from "Top 10 Foods for an Intelligent Baby" and "The Molecular Science of a Perfect Burp" to tips on "Gentle Parenting". It was like being stalked by a digital know-it-all who wouldn't stop shouting about sleep training and organic purees.

Then there was the massive wardrobe crisis—an expensive cycle where my changing body was directly proportional to the growing hole in my pocket. I had started 2025 at 70 kilos, determined to hit a healthy BMI. Being a massive foodie, it took every ounce of my willpower to drop to 60 kilos sustainably by mid-year. I was so thrilled with my new silhouette that I immediately had my entire wardrobe tapered to fit my leaner frame.

​Barely two weeks after the last tailor visit, I discovered I was expecting. I sat there in my newly fitted clothes, staring at the positive test in a state of immediate regret. By the end of 2025, I had come full circle back to 70 kilos, and I’ve only grown since then.  

Since my marriage, my clothes had been altered so many times they were practically pleading for mercy. Many of my pre-loved favorites had already been given away, and what was left of my wardrobe simply couldn't keep up with the expansion. Even so, as I transitioned into maternity wear, I tried to keep my purchases as minimalist as possible.

So, here I waddle. I am a world away from the woman who once prioritised her rigid schedule and perfectionism above all else. My quiet sanctuary is now a warehouse for nappies, bibs, and more baby gear than I know how to assemble. With my D-Day just a few weeks away, the nerves are finally setting in — wish me luck! I might not feel like a 'natural' mum yet, but surviving these nine months has given me a tiny bit of hope that with a little initial support, I can handle one little human, even if that task feels like a much bigger mountain to climb. But just do me a favour: if you ever see me out later with a screaming toddler and the face of someone who hasn't slept in ages, please don't roll your eyes!