Working Mother poem: Rolling contract

Rolling contract 
I’ll keep it secret ’til the 12-week mark.
I won’t tell anyone at home or work, because that’s smart.
I’ll have my scan and make sure everything’s ok,
that the baby has a heartbeat; the pregnancy’s here to stay.
Except I didn’t plan for sickness; for puking every morning,
for getting on the Tube and nausea starting without warning.
I didn’t know writing copy about chocolate would make me gag
– or the smell of onions, fish, booze, eggs and bacon, bread and fags.
And so I only got to eight weeks then I had to tell my boss,
turns out she was pregnant too, and happy for me – not cross.
She told me I could work from home and email in my copy.
I knew I’d always delivered so thought: in pregnancy; they’ve got me.
It went smoothly until a meeting with HR I had to attend
where they told me when I gave birth, my ‘rolling’ contract would instantly end.
I stared right into that woman’s eyes, to see if she knew this was wrong,
she averted her gaze, and said ‘that’s that’ and I knew I didn’t have long.
So I demanded an increased day rate and managed to save ten thousand pounds
then I gave birth to my daughter without filing for discrimination on those grounds,
because a pregnant woman or new mother only has three months to claim
and I was busy with learning to be a mum, and trying to stay sane.
So instead of a court case, I committed to being the best mother I could be.
And made a mental note to never again let that happen to me.