There is definitely no way I could be pregnant. PMS and the first twinges of pregnancy are practically indistinguishable for me, so it must be the former. Also, did we even have sex this month? Could I really have blown it with the birth control that badly? No, no, it's just not possible.
Our house is not big enough. Our car is not big enough. My attention span is not big enough. Plus I am only one day late. I am having a glass of wine at Gouda's birthday party, so there.
My monthly messenger is several days late when she is generally on time or a few days early. It's time to get one of them tests.
Take test.
Two pink lines.
Swallow hard. Swallow harder. Sit down even harder.
Oh jeez, oh jeez, oh jeez. What if this kid is autistic, too? What if it isn't?
I am getting my remaining tube tied after this, goddammit.
Through haze, hear phone ringing. It is my buddy MB. I'm not sure what I said to her, but it was definitely brusque.
Haze around for the rest of the day.
I wrote an apologetic, evasive email to MB this morning:
>Sorry for being rather abrupt on the phone yesterday. I had just been
>informed minutes before that yet another person in our circle (not one of my
>friends that you know) who has no business being pregnant, is. I was
>alarmed, because she and her husband have been quite public about their lack
>of interest in having another child (they have two already). Also, having
>lost a pregnancy at 8 weeks, I feel it is unwise to disclose this
>information on the day one sees the two pink lines. But, whatever, I will
>wish her luck anyhow, and am already thinking good thoughts for a healthy
>pregnancy and little one.
>
>Please understand that I am not against third children in general--although
>I think that having children outnumber parents makes no sense,
>statistically, and am a fan of the replacement rate approach--but rather
>think that this is stress that she and her partner weren't looking for and
>don't need.
>
>Anyhow. That's all I'm going to say until she's at least three months,
>mostly because I'm sworn to secrecy--I can't even tell Seymour yet.
I am a sneaky little minx, no? But that's how I feel. Sort of. And I am not going to tell Seymour yet. He's leaving for his biking trip with Floyd tomorrow. It would be nice for him to have a little bit of fun before his world implodes, methinks.
I wrote vague references to morning sickness on the blog. Also I called my doctor; she wants me to get a blood test confirmation today, and an ultrasound in two days.
I will not be the carefree rule-bending girl I was during Iz and Leelo's pregnancy (and which my five-months-pregnant-with-third girlfriend is breezily being as I write). No coffee, alcohol, stinky cheeses, fish (thankfully I'd already mostly stopped). No Burger King. No crap food. No hair dyeing. No wallowing in self-pity about how brutal it's going to be to have three kids, and letting those emotions affect my physical state. There will be no "what if's" with this baby.
Asked Seymour to clean the litterbox; he was game. I'm not going to have to do it again for almost two years! Whoop!
I took Seymour and his bike to the airport this afternoon. Despite all my good intentions about ensuring him the Best Trip Possible, I completely wigged out on him for being half an hour late and fucking up my afternoon schedule re: picking up the kids. And truly, the only thing he had to do today was be ready to leave at 1:00. But still. I am being completely fucked by my own hormones and am passing those blessings on to all near and dear to me, as well as venting them through some memorably pissy and maudlin blog entries.
I am not entirely believing in this pregnancy. Maybe it's because I now know things can go so dramatically wrong (firsthand from my ectopic pregnancy and then as the mother of Leelo, and secondhand from friends' and fellow bloggers' losses). I know I should buck up, but my partner is away and I'm an emotional sinkhole under the best of circumstances.
Predictably, my doctor--who chided me about the inadvisability of third children just two weeks ago and to whom I asserted our lack of interest in more sprogs--erupts into peals of laughter when she sees who her 11:00 ultrasound appointment is and what it is for.
Apparently I am about five weeks along, based on the size of the bubble she can see, and there does not appear to be any activity in my remaining functional fallopian tube. Still, she wants another blood test today to track BHCG levels, and to see me for another ultrasound in two weeks.
I tried very hard today to be calm and mellow. But that was a little bit difficult what with needing to tie up and file taxes, clean the house because I refuse to come home to a pig sty, and pack for all three of us while shoehorning in dinner with my baby cousin and her boyfriend. It is now 2 A.M. and I am finally on my way to bed. Iz wants to get up at dawn so she can see the sun rise as we drive, but, as I told her several times, I'm just too tired. I just can't.
No real morning sickness yet. General paranoia about losing this pregnancy, which I am realizing that I very much want to keep.
Lordy. Leelo was up a good portion of the night, mostly missing his Daddy. Iz woke up and discovered that it was already well past Dawn, and sat at the top of the stairs keening until Leelo and I woke up too.
I was really worried about surviving the six hour drive to L.A. without nodding off, as I am practically narcoleptic during my first trimesters, but I managed it with the help of a single serving of caffeine. Forgive me, little nugget.
Seymour, victim once again to a schism in the space/time continuum, was not only not there when I arrived in Los Angeles, he was 90 minutes south and just off the mountain bike trail. I yelled and then hung up on him. Twice. Which made him angry right back at me, but I don't fucking care. I told him when I'd be arriving, I told him that the kids didn't sleep, I told him that I was sick and exhausted and really needed a break. I will not apologize.
Then I went upstairs and found blood in my underwear.
When Seymour finally arrived, I was flipped out so severely that I couldn't even talk to him. I handed over the kids and went to bed.
Woke up to more spotting. Great.
Seymour was partially penitent although obviously still irked at me for hanging up on him. He offered to stay and help out with the kids during our niece's All Balls Out fairy princess birthday party, which happened at the house at which we are staying. But since I'm going to Phoenix for the next two days, I told him to go ahead and go mountain biking. He and Floyd opted for Go-Karting instead. Whatever, as long as they're having fun.
Our niece Leigh's birthday party was wacky wacky crazy. Thankfully Iz is old enough to run around by herself without too much supervision. Relatives offered to help, but they still don't really watch Leelo closely enough and he got away. I took him back, and then lost him twice myself because I turned to shut a child gate he'd just gone through. That kid's been greased with some sort of lightning juice.
Seymour and Floyd returned as the party was winding down. Floyd wanted to leave for Phoenix a.s.a.p., so I found Seymour out on the balcony, and, while Leelo miraculously played quietly nearby, told my partner about our situation and the spotting and all that. He looked like a tree just fell on him.
He asked me if my trip to Phoenix was necessary, and I told him that it really was, I really needed to get the fuck away. I remembered once more why I stalked, seduced, and married this wonderful man when he then told me that we will be okay, we will get through it (not his exact words--those were too precious to be shared).
Drove to Phoenix with Floyd. Who wouldn't let me drive. Tried to stay awake, to keep him company, but kept nodding off and rubbing the back of my head against the seat. Arrived in Phoenix with Isaac Mizrahi hair.
I awake to blinding light and blood-free underwear. I am in Phoenix!
I call Dr. K anyhow, just in case. Dr. K gently reminds me that I am Rh negative, and that I need to get a Rhogam shot a.s.a.p. Fuck. No local obstetricians or clinics can take me--I have to go to an ER.
And, as my beautiful wonderful host TLF is going to have to drive me to the ER, I tell her what's up. She is ecstatic, because she and Floyd want to breed soon. We discuss timing our kids as closely together as possible, after she has surgery to correct her bite (she can't be pregnant during the procedure).
Although I spend more than seven hours at the ER, it is okay because I get to hang out and chat with TLF the whole time. My freaking about whether or not the Rhogam injection has Thimerasol in it proves effective when no fewer than three people verify that the shot will be preservative-free. How awesome is that.
The ER doctor prescribes "vaginal rest." That is okay, my husband is in San Diego and my husband-substitute is in a drawer back home. It is past 10 P.M. by the time we emerge from the hospital--we've missed lunch, and dinner. I am almost falling over with faintness. TLF rescues me with some delectable Skitttles, and then some ass-kicking Mexican food.
Poor sweet Floyd was so worried about my having to go to the ER yesterday that I got permission from Seymour to tell him, too. Floyd, like his partner, was happy happy.
TLF was telling me about their natural birth control efforts, and how effective and simple they are. "All you have to do is take your temperature at the same time every day!"
To which I replied, "Honey, all I had to do was take a birth control pill every day, and I couldn't manage to do that, could I?" She laughs.
Then we go to an all-day Spa experience. Body scrub. Massage. Facial. Lunch. Manicure. Pedicure. Aaaaah.
I am still engaged in frantic underwear checking. However I am feeling optimistic, and am wearing a white thong as a challenge.
Off to San Diego to rescue poor Seymour, who, apparently, has been both saddled with all non-infant children and abandoned by all the adults in my parents' non-Leelo-friendly condo for two days straight.
Damn, those kids are cute! Damn, two week old baby Armand is cute!
I want a Rubia's fish taco!
Get on computer for the first time all week to check things like pregnancy stages. Oh, whoops, I wasn't supposed to be having any manicures or pedicures until my second trimester. And guess what, stupid fucker, those Rubia's fish tacos are made with FISH, which you are supposed to be avoiding. Arrrgh.
My brain has definitely been macerated by this hormone cocktail. How else to explain talking Seymour into taking Iz, Leelo, and their 8-year-old cousin Nicole to Sea World during Spring Break? All lines are two hours long. It is hot. We can't get any food because all the lines--even for crappy Theme Park food--are two hours long. We're not able to hit most of the rides the kids want to go on, and so promise (AAAAAAAIIIIGH!) to come back the next day.
Collapse into sleepy lump upon getting back to the condo.
Seymour says, Fuck This, I've been on kid duty for four straight days. I need to go mountain biking! I say Go, with my blessings.
Then I talk my exhausted mom into coming with me and the kids. She agrees, bless her martyrific soul.
When we get home, I tell her about our situation. She of course starts freaking about the autism potentialities. I tell her not to worry, the chances are extremely low. Low low low. She seems somewhat placated, and then starts giggling about having another baby to snuggle and squish. This woman's latest grandbaby is just two weeks old, and she's already hankering for another! Jeez, glad to be of service.
We do the nine-hour drive back from San Diego in seven hours, somehow. We discuss names. We've enough good leftovers from the previous two babies that the discussion is brief.
Then we discuss getting a larger vehicle. I want a VW EuroVan! I cannot make the ultimate dork concession and drive a minivan. Seymour says that if Honda makes a more fuel-efficient, ultra-low-emissions vehicle, then I'm just going to have to suck it up. He is right. Dammit. And it's not like I'm fooling anyone into thinking I'm something other than a suburban mom in my shit-brown Volvo wagon.
Morning sickness hasn't arrived yet, so I ask to have Suraj for dinner. I usually can't tolerate even the thought of Indian food when I'm pregnant, so I want to take advantage of this lull. Imagine my delight when dinner ends up being my morning sickness trigger.
I hate everyone. All I want to do is lie down on my bed and pretend that I don't feel like throwing up all the time. Why is my belly so twingy all the time? Once again setting the world record for checking of one's undergarments, expecting to see blood again any moment now.
Why must all natural pre-natal vitamins smell of nausea-inducing swamp gas, or cause unbearable sulfurous belching?
Still queasy-stomached and bitchy. I believe I have succesfully alienated all of my local friends.
Seymour brings up the subject of expanding the house. I blanch. I bring up the possibility of a home birth, since I barely made it to the hospital on time with Leelo. He blanches.
Babysitter C cancelled on us for tonight; her school sprang another surprise meeting on her. Seymour needs to go on a post-work ride to prep for his race on Sunday, of course he can go. No problem. But I want to sit in the corner and cry from exhaustion and needing to puke but not quite being able to.
Morning sickess was day-long and awful today. And I've already started popping Tums for heartburn--usually this happens in the second trimester.
But I was a good wife today. Seymour expressed a craving for two of our favorite stinky cheeses, Epoisses and Monte Enebro, and I had them out and at room temperature when he got home today, despite not being able to eat them myself. I'm not always a castrating harridan.
I can keep the nausea down if I eat a little something all the time. Smarties (the American, not the Canadian version) are excellent for this. So is strawberry or Cherry Garcia ice cream. Anything salty is really good, too. I have had Chicken & Stars soup with lots of crackers for lunch every day this week. And mmmm, cheese pizza.
What I really want is a nice washed-rind cheese, and I think that perhaps I might be able to eat Cowgirl Creamery's Red Hawk (scrumptious) since it is made with Straus Family Dairy milk and I'm fairly certain their milk is pasteurized.
Here's a whole lot of what not to name your kid.
Went for the second ultrasound today. Well, there it was--a little lump with a yolk sac and a clearly beating heart. This is real. Not going away. I am eight weeks along. Our due date is Nov. 30th.
Dr. K was howlingly funny as always. "Just ONE, right?" I demanded. "Yes, yes," laughingly, "just one. You're lucky! I had a woman in here last week; we were expecting one and found three!"
We discussed my worries about spotting two weeks ago. She switched to her serious voice and said "Well, you know that 15 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage, right?" I nodded. Then she laughed again and said "What most people don't know is that you generally fertilize more than one egg, and then all but one get reabsorbed. That was probably just some leftover 'material.' You have a perfect track record with non-ectopic pregnancies; you'll probably be fine."
Except she said "perfect" so now I am cursed. I know I have been freaking out about this pregnancy, but I am absolutely committed to it. I put my hand on my belly afterwards and asked the baby to please stay.
Oh, shit, where did I hide that ultrasound printout?
Off to dinner with Seymour's parents. We're not going to be telling them about our situation yet, as Seymour's dad will have far too many questions about sibling autism rates and I've been in denial about researching that so far.
BTW, I am irked with Seymour, who says I'm already starting to get my W.C. Fields pregnancy nose. Goddammit. Also, the skirt I wore tonight was noticeably tight even though I haven't gained any weight yet. I will make sure to have the kids sit in my lap a lot while they still can.
I have a few minutes before the weekend of complete insanity falls on my head, so I'm bucking up and researching those secondary autism rates.
Ah. The general population odds are 1 in 500. Multiple sources say that our chances for having a second autistic child are one in twenty. Well, those aren't exactly betting odds, are they? If we had the same chance of winning the lottery, it's not as though Seymour would be planning to quit his job or I would be ordering my tricked-out Viper.
I will remain optimistic in general, while angry at the incendiary rephrasing of those same statistics to state that our chances of this child being autistic are FIFTY!! TIMES!! HIGHER!! than those of our pregnant neighbors.
I am more wiped than words can convery. After a weekend of no fewer than seven high-stress social events, five of which I attended at the lone child wrangler, I am done. Routed out. Useless.
I am not going to do this to myself anymore. I am not going to let myself get completely exhausted and stressed out during this pregnancy. Also, it is not fair to Leelo to drag him to all these restaurants and cocktail parties where there is nothing for him to do and no safe place for him to run around. He was completely crazed and unreachable by the time all the events were finished.
In the future, we will keep our social events down to one per day. If Seymour is out of town, I will either redirect the events to our house, or bow out. This level of exhaustion puts me in exactly the kind of sour mood I swore I'd avoid this time. I would prefer to be a boring homebody, with a healthy baby.
Also, I am not sure I can continue reading the comments at At Little Pregnant. While I am in love with all those incredibly brave, sassy women, and learn so much from their war stories, I'm not sure how many accounts of pregnancy demise I can read while only 8 weeks along. But they deserve their own talk show, at the very least, just to spread their message of brass balls-bolstered compassion.
To prove what a insensitively sensitive idiot I am, I get irked at the frequent jabs at women who get pregnant after "only missing a birth control pill." I know they would never put down me and my "I wasn't really interested in having another child due to the autism risks" circumstances, but it stings anyhow. Still, it's not my territory--I have no business commenting, and I don't.
Thinking about names, because it is distracting and so very fun to do.
Our boy name is traditional, and is a perfect complement to Rosenberg. There are about twenty XX Rosenbergs in Seymour's extended family, but they're all at least fifty years old. Having a wee one running around would be too fun.
Our girl name is increasingly popular but I've loved it ever since the very first time I read GWTW, so, my dear, I don't give a damn. Here are some girl names I love but which we will not be using because of the Rosenberg conflict:-Isobel (you know that's not Iz's real name, right?)
-Dinah
-Beatrice "Trixie"
-Serafina
There are no good boy names besides the one we've already chosen, except perhaps Otto. And while Otto Rosenberg sounds awesome, Rosenberg is not our real last name.
In my case, having morning sickness is a lot like, uh, what I would think being stoned is like. I want something in my stomach all the time so the nausea will fuck off, but even as I'm eating the latest potential palliative, I know it's not going to entirely address my needs. When stoned, so I've heard, you're desperate to eat even as you're eating. Never happy, never satisfied. I am a nauseated Charybdis.
Still twingy bellied, still compulsively checking my drawers for blood. I might stop doing this after 12 weeks, when, if all goes well, we're going to blow the heads off all our nearests and dearests by telling them about our condition. I think the best time will be after my next OB appointment on May 14.
I can still get all my non-elastic-waisted pants on. This is good. Might be because I can't bear the thought or smell of those lattes I used to drink daily.
Leelo followed so closely after Iz (21 months) that my body hadn't completely rebounded and my belly went BOOM! almost immediately. I'd definitely popped buttons by 8.5 weeks, which is where I am now.
I have officially entered the Exhausted All the Time stage. And, the I Am Queen Of All the Bitches stage. Poor Seymour. He is really making an effort to pick up my housekeeping/kid herding slack.
Yesterday just fucking SUCKED. Totally barfy and emotional all day, especially as Leelo was completely tailspinning, symptoms-wise. Lots of crying (from me, not him).
How is it that my mouth can simultaneously and continuously taste metallic, greasy, and acidic?
Trying to be optimistic. Little nugget, I am pleased that you are here. We are 8 1/2 weeks along, you and I. Let's stick it out. I will breastfeed you until kindergarten, and will keep you away from all those nasty vaccines. You will be perfect.
This is just all about the gripes, isn't it? Well, then, some humor:
This afternoon my cousin D was over. I got paranoid when kept casting sidelong glances at my just-starting-to-pooch tummy. Then I realized my fly was down.
So fucking tired. Started the day off in a gardening reverie (thank you, Spring, my yard is looking fiiiine indeed). Felt like I was going to conquer the world. But then I got no down time from 8 to 1 except my brief bath, and just about collapsed. Stayed deflated for the rest of the day. We've put the kids down and it's supposed to be Laundry Time! but I'd really prefer it to be Sleepy Time.
It occurs to me that, in my previous pregnancies, I was not wrangling an autistic preschooler and a pre-K chatterbox. This may have something to do with my wipedness.
I don't know why anyone would need to buy a baby names book these days--all a prospective parent needs to do is choose from among the first names of the good people in one's spam folder. Here are today's winners:
Heriberto
Freda
Schaefer
Keven
Wilfred
Jarvis
Marlyn
Adeline
Dewey
Queen
Barbar
Chana
Lakendra
Hershel
Lon
Levi
Hubert
I am trying to be an optimist during this pregnancy, to keep it from being like Leelo's. With him I spent much of my pregnant time moping and sighing, somewhat resentful of the new little person who was going to take time away from me and the wonderful baby I already had. That must have been what made him autistic! I need to perk up.
I am mostly just sad. And grouchy as all fuck.
Yesterday I took the kids to the park with a bunch of our friends. For Iz and Leelo, it was great. For me, it totally sucked. Leelo is such a fast and furious crazy boy that I can't take my eyes off him for a second. How am I ever going to go to the park with a baby in tow?
I blurted my situation to my cousin JP this morning, unexpectedly. She'd asked me to pick up her daughter Danielle from Kindergarten, on account of Danielle's regular pick-up parent being quarantined for Slap Cheek, and I got flustered and told her that I couldn't do it because I was 9 weeks pregnant. Apparently the Slap Cheek is going around the school. This would be the same school where I did face painting on about 30 students last Friday. Fuck. Guess I'll be calling my doctor.
Anyhow, once she saw that I was not just depressed but could laugh about it too, she laughed with me. As I knew she would. She asked me what my reaction was, and I said "Fuck! Or, maybe I shouldn't have." Then she smirked and said "Yup, that's what happens when you have sex..."
Guess how much baby paraphernalia we kept? Not a lick. Furniture? Not a stick. Clothes? Not a stitch.
Also, as I was driving around town today crying to myself, I wondered why my mom seems to think it's appropriate to ask me if I'm not worried about this baby being autistic. I had to be the one to reassure her again with my standard "if we had a one in twenty chance of a good thing happening, you wouldn't exactly be betting on it, now would you?" shpiel. It seems to me that she should be the one to reassure me, to cheerlead for me. In my selfish indignation, I feel as though I've got enough going on without having to chuck her under the chin, too.
Anyhow, went and got my blood drawn for Slap Cheek testing today. Results in a couple of days.
Started out the day on a high note, because I am a total dweeb. What was the happy-making event? Getting blogrolled. See? Dweeb. Woo! Bouncy dance.
Except that five minutes later I went to the john and found blood in my drawers. And now I am sitting next to the phone clenching my teeth until Dr. K calls back.
---later...
Another verified preservative-free Rhogam shot. In the ass!
Dr. K says that since the bleeding's very light, is not accompanied by cramping, and since we've already seen the heart beating, I'm probably just fine. Still, she wants to do an ultrasound on Monday (it is Friday) just to check things out. God fucking damn it. I do not want to spend an entire weekend wondering if this baby is still alive. Aiiiigh!
Seymour and I agreed that it would be good for my mental health if I could discuss our situation with my comrades. So now Jo, Ep, and Badger know. Whew. They were surprised, but supportive. I love my friends.
I am guessing that my being totally ill all the time is a good sign. Bit more spotting, though. Ultrasound tomorrow.
I am a big stupid fucker for poring over the big family medical guide my mom gave me--now I know that 50% of pregnancies with first trimester bleeding miscarry, usually between weeks 9 - 11 (I will be 10 weeks along tomorrow).
Ooooooh...ePregnancy.com has a day-by-day pregnancy calendar. They understand--we psycho hormonal pregnant ladies want our information daily, not rationed out weekly as by BabyCenter, etc.
This is day number 70
You're 10 weeks pregnant
Your baby's age since conception is 56 days / 8 weeks
There are 210 days until your due date! (75.0% to go)
Now let's just hope that this pregnancy is something to be excited about. The ultrasound is in three hours...
later...
Whew. The ultrasound revealed a little person with a beating heart and four limbs doing a jig. So we're good. Turns out that the placenta is lying right over my cervix (that's placenta previa for you terminology hawks). This is probably why I've been bleeding. The placenta should migrate up the side of the uterus as the latter expands, and then the spotting should stop.
Dr. K said that she sees my situation all the time, that she's had patients who've bled menstrual-strength blood throughout their pregnancies and delivered perfectly fine babies, and that I should stop worrying. And also, that I am immune to Slap Cheek, having already been exposed. Several big exhalations.
I revealed all to KV and JM this afternoon. Their shrieks and gasps and ear-splitting "OH MY GOD!!"s were probably heard by folks across the Bay. KV is delighted, as our thirdses will be a mere three or four months apart. JM is mad that she won't be around to see the new squiggler. I am relieved to not have to pretend that I'm not sick and tired all the time.
Then, an info bomb, delivered by email. Turns out one of my dearest friends is, like me, very skilled about her birth control tracking. And she's due at almost exactly the same time.
Something's in the water.
So ill. So ill. So ill. Weak. Bad vertigo. Upset tummy. Whiny. This is what happens after I have a brief energy surge and decide that I can bake cookies, make and deliver a meal to a new local mom, write the school newsletter, and assemble and mail off mother's day packages to the grandmothers on top of all my regular duties, within the space of 24 hours. I am stupid.
I am realizing that the part of this pregnancy that's really going to suck is...wrangling Leelo. He is so physical, and requires so much running after and picking up and holding onto and wrestling. We are just starting to get to the point where I can take him shopping and not restrain him in his stroller the whole time, where he can hold my hand and (mostly) walk along nicely with me. I don't want to let him lose those skills. But I may not have a choice.
Today Iz looked at me, in my uncharacteristic flowing hippie top (to cover the slighly poochy belly poking out from non-maternity jeans that I am probably wearing for the last time), and said "Mommy, your belly looks bigger, like you're going to have a baby. Your nipples look bigger, too."
Intriguing. I think it's just wishful thinking on her part, spurred on by reading and re-reading her All About Reproduction book, but who knows. She can be uncannily observant.
Finally let MB in on the secret. She was more than surprised but very, very supportive. We decided amongst ourselves that, since we both have neurotypical as well as autistic children, then our odds of having another autistic child are actually halved to 1 in 40. Yeah! Sounds good to me.
This is day number 77
You're 11 weeks pregnant
Your baby's age since conception is 63 days / 9 weeks
There are 203 days until your due date! (72.5% to go)
And let's hope today continues to be a better day than yesterday (Mother's day), which was dedicated to intense vertigo and barfing. Thankfully Seymour was willing to spend all day running after the kids while I slept and moped.
KV and JM were both over again this afternoon. JM brought a pile of baby paraphernalia, KV brought maternity clothes she's already outgrown. I expressed gratitude, but believe I won't even touch either bag until my next appointment, four days from now. If all goes well at that point, I will beeline for the mall to get myself some clothes and bras that don't look like they're going to explode at any minute. Then I will reveal all, to all.
Tomorrow's the day. My 11.5 week OB appointment. If all is well, we will start telling everybody that--as one of my friends pointed out--if we had been truly dedicated to replacement rate family numbers, then one of us should have gotten snipped. Or something like that.
Seymour has offered to be the one to tell his parents, which I truly appreciate. Everyone else I'd rather tell via email. With a big pre-emptive "Here is one line about potential sibling autism rates and don't ever fucking bring it up again."
I have resumed feeling skeptical about this pregnancy-not in my dedication to it, but rather in its viability. I don't know why. I've been really anxious about it. But I've also been really ill with the morning/all day sickness, and that is supposed to be a good sign.
Think good thoughts for me for tomorrow. Thanks.
I was greatly offended when Dr. K's assistant handed me the brochure on screening tests for women over 35. I hissed, "I'm 34!" She retorted, "Yes, but you'll be 35 when you deliver." Oh, yeah.
Dr. K then came in, and tried to find the heartbeat with her Doppler device. No luck, but she said that it's often hard to hear it this early on. So, down the hall for the fourth ultrasound. Where we saw a beating heart, a moving baby, and an intact cranium (Me: "No anencephaly, right?" Dr. K to me: "No, the head is fine." To herself, probably: "Get off the fucking internet already!").
So, we're good. Tell whomever you like, as long as they won't be talking to Seymour's parents in the next three days.
The due date has been pushed 48 hours to Dec. 1, so here's my readjusted ePregnancy blurb for today:
This is day number 80
You're 11 weeks pregnant
Your baby's age since conception is 66 days / 9 weeks
There are 200 days until your due date! (71.4% to go)
And this is the last entry in this journal. From here on out, we're public, and all this pregnancy crap will be folded into the main blog.