IT’S a sign of the times when a French minister announces her pregnancy on Facebook.

Last month, Ms Nathalie Kosciusko- Morizet posted this line on her profile at the social-networking site: “So there, it’s true, I’m pregnant.”

Okay, she’s France’s minister for the digital economy and, thus, is entitled to be high-tech about such things. But, while I admired her bold public declaration of impending motherhood, I paradoxically became paranoid about my own pregnancy announcement.

Will I sound like I’m showing off if I tell all and sundry in cyberspace that I’m expecting my second child? What if I update my Facebook status to show that I’m three months pregnant and those who read it think: “Who cares?” Or worse: “Yah lah, very fertile lah.”

I couldn’t help but wonder: Is there, or should there be, some form of unspoken protocol governing the breaking of such joyful news? If Ms Kosciusko-Morizet’s approach was a little too in-your-face for me, then was I erring too much towards secrecy?

When I found out that I was expecting, my wish to keep mum was due in part to fears that the pregnancy might not be viable early on.

But, another part of me wanted to bond with my unborn child undetected for a while, without me turning into one of those exhibitionist mums who would broadcast every foetal kick on Twitter (indeed, a new electronic device called the Kickbee, when strapped to a pregnant woman’s belly, lets you do just that automatically).

The result, however, was that I started to display some bizarre, covert behaviour.

To pave the way for pregnancy “confessions” to my friends, I started wearing obviously voluminous maternity dresses, in the hopes that it would provoke their suspicions and get some questions going. Alas, my friends proved to be a very tactful lot, who made no mention of my shapeless wardrobe and expanding girth.

It was very frustrating, because I had spent a lot of time in the past cheerfully swatting away premature congratulations and well-intentioned queries about whether I was “already expecting No. 2”, when I was merely sporting a turgid belly full of fat and food.

I surreptitiously posted fuzzy ultrasound pictures of my growing baby at 11 weeks on my blog, with the caption: “Hello, world!”

Then, I left my regular visitors to draw their own conclusions.

That helped to alert five people. Not bad, although one friend mock-grumbled that she had to find out about the news via my blog.

A couple of months into the pregnancy, the nausea and fatigue lifted a little to enable me to become less home-bound and more proactive. I cornered some fellow mums I know one afternoon, like a heat-seeking missile, and spilled my delicious secret to them.

Basking in their excitement and delight, I felt something vaguely like catharsis.

Then, in a previous column, I wrote about my pregnancy and food cravings (causing the lifestyle editor to call me up to fact-check if I was indeed with child).

And, since then, the congratulatory responses from readers have been kind, warm and lovely.

The thought of saying, “By the way, I’m knocked up again”, over lunch at a noisy coffee shop to a bunch of former colleagues or karaoke mates still doesn’t seem appropriate.

I’m too afraid to sound like a bore and, when I hesitate too long, I’m too worried that the right moment to tell has passed.

But I have also learnt that I am making a mountain out of an abdomen-hill. By November this year, my pregnancy would have hopefully culminated in a smooth delivery. And dear friends, no matter when or how they find out about this new addition to my family, can be counted on to celebrate with me.

You can bet there’ll be a birth announcement – even on Facebook.

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