Thursday, November 04
So after the last doctor's visit... it's official. I'm pregnant again.
Fourteen weeks pregnant, actually. Being not entirely dim and quite capable of counting, I have known that I was pregnant for some time, but chose to treat my pregnancy as unofficial until the end of the first trimester -- partly to minimize the damage if it turned out another disappointment, and partly because being official would have involved announcing it, which would have been effort, and I have frankly been too bloody ill for the past month or two to even think about such a thing. Whoever named it "morning sickness" was a) male and b) in need of a damned good kicking, though in fairness I should say that I haven't actually thrown up at any time. Wanted to throw up, yes. Been absolutely positive I was going to throw up, yes. Seriously considered sticking my fingers down my throat in hopes it would stop with the damned day-in, day-out, morning-noon-and-night queasiness, yes. Actually thrown up, no. I'm one of the lucky ones. Also there's this lovely thing called pregnancy fatigue, which is sort of like having the Sandman stand behind you starting at, oh, ten am or so and constantly thump you in the head with the giant blackjack of Sleep until you give in, which in my case was usually about six pm. Given that I get home from work at around five, it was not leaving a lot of the day to go on.
Don't get me started on the sore boobs.
At any rate, both the sickness and the fatigue have, as promised, started to let up with the second trimester; I have an estimated due date of May 1st; I have ultrasound photos of a perfectly healthy alien tadpole; and my doctor tells me that, having got to the second trimester with said tadpole, I've now got a 99.5% chance of carrying to term. So I'm letting myself be sort of cautiously optimistic about the whole thing and, you know. Tell people.
Consider yourselves told.
Fourteen weeks pregnant, actually. Being not entirely dim and quite capable of counting, I have known that I was pregnant for some time, but chose to treat my pregnancy as unofficial until the end of the first trimester -- partly to minimize the damage if it turned out another disappointment, and partly because being official would have involved announcing it, which would have been effort, and I have frankly been too bloody ill for the past month or two to even think about such a thing. Whoever named it "morning sickness" was a) male and b) in need of a damned good kicking, though in fairness I should say that I haven't actually thrown up at any time. Wanted to throw up, yes. Been absolutely positive I was going to throw up, yes. Seriously considered sticking my fingers down my throat in hopes it would stop with the damned day-in, day-out, morning-noon-and-night queasiness, yes. Actually thrown up, no. I'm one of the lucky ones. Also there's this lovely thing called pregnancy fatigue, which is sort of like having the Sandman stand behind you starting at, oh, ten am or so and constantly thump you in the head with the giant blackjack of Sleep until you give in, which in my case was usually about six pm. Given that I get home from work at around five, it was not leaving a lot of the day to go on.
Don't get me started on the sore boobs.
At any rate, both the sickness and the fatigue have, as promised, started to let up with the second trimester; I have an estimated due date of May 1st; I have ultrasound photos of a perfectly healthy alien tadpole; and my doctor tells me that, having got to the second trimester with said tadpole, I've now got a 99.5% chance of carrying to term. So I'm letting myself be sort of cautiously optimistic about the whole thing and, you know. Tell people.
Consider yourselves told.
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