Your baby ain't sweet like mine

Somewhat disconcertingly, the radiologist seemed to take great delight in announcing: "Your lives are so over" during our 12-week scan back in October. When we compared notes on crazy things people say about becoming parents, my sister-in-law said that she and my brother, Joel, had been told that "having a baby is like going to war". My brother Olly laughed and said that after four kids and a tour of Afghanistan he could confirm that going to war is a lot easier. Holy shit.

Bravely facing impending doom: bump @ 32 weeks

Our little one - currently going by the placeholder of Roscoe - is due to make its entrance in mid April and spends its days sleeping and hiccupping and nights flipping and kicking about like an animatronic extra from Alien. The first few months of pregnancy seemed to inch along, stalling completely at about six months - due to the Western world's dogged insistence that gestation is nine months - before suddenly picking up pace and throttling towards D-day.

We've bought a buggy, cat seat and (real) nappies (more on that later) and inherited a whackload of baby clothing and paraphernalia so, in terms of the requisite equipment, I think we're pretty much good to go.

It turns out that the world of babies is complex - there is a language and I suspect a compulsory lobotomy that goes with the territory. Men who I'd previously thought had the emotional range of a potato seemed to turn to fawning marshmallow upon becoming fathers. Everyone's personal experience seems to qualify them as the global authority on parenthood and "what babies need", and the only thing I have gleaned is that there is no single answer to any question relating to babies.

At a friend's party a couple of weeks ago I came face-to-bump with a woman who was the archetypal older posh mummy. She had six weeks to go and looked like she was ready to launch a torpedo out of her abdomen. Her first question was "Who is your specialist?". She was horrified when I confessed that I didn't have one, wailing "But all my friends have one!". I was regaled with nightmare scenarios and explanations of why a specialist is de rigueur. When I mentioned I'd had two appointments with my midwife, Posh Mummy yelped and said she'd already seen her specialist at least 30 times! She swore by "What to Expect When You're Expecting" and gave me the name of a celebrated Auckland "baby whisperer" who would be able to assist should I need anything.

The following day I was at a family barbie and met a next-door neighbour who was the antithesis of Posh Mummy, having given birth to her second baby in the lounge just a few feet from where we sat.

My bump is fairly apparent now - though in the right light, with the right outfit, some people still completely miss it - so last week we took some photos to document its existence.

Belly button poised to pop

Roscoe gets some vitamin D