So in case you haven't heard the news (which y'all have because there are only 2 of you who read this), I'm having me a damn baby!
I'm now (sort of) officially in the second trimester (depending on whose count you go by) at 14 weeks 4 days. That first trimester--not so much fun. Morning sickness (which incidentally can hit at any time) is nothing compared to the deep bone-crushing fatigue that is just now beginning to lift its ugly soul-destroying head. A fatigue so complete that I was unable to do any housework for over a month. A fatigue so complete that I was driven to re-reading old Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter (and Buffy Wannabe) novels instead of anything good. A fatigue so complete that the very idea of putting together enough original thought and effort to compose a post, even a 3-word one, left me cowering and gibbering in a corner of the couch. Also fun? Rampant acne, the kind not seen since my teenage years. Fortunately that's clearing up as well.
But now I'm in the feel-good trimester--and I'm waiting to feel good. There's been a little tiny bit of spotting, which sends regular hormonal-driven anxiety into overdrive. As I remarked to R this morning, "If I need to squint and peer and examine the toilet paper in different lights to determine if there's a tinge of pink or brown, there's probably actually nothing there to be concerned about, huh?" To his enormous and eternal credit, he just nodded and smiled, instead of hauling me off to the loony bin post haste.
R has been ridiculously excited about this whole turn of events, which is gratifying beyond words. He thanks me every day for carrying the baby (which makes me nervous, because OH MY GOD WHAT IF I DROP THE BABY) and he has even purchased a first mother's day gift of maternity pajamas, this fulling my long-held fantasy of receiving a pajama gram of my very own. He's taken over the vast majority of the housework--something I'm hoping to change now that I'm starting to get a little bit more energy back.
I'm starting to show. Not enough to really look pregnant, but enough to look like I plowed my way through a couple boxes of Cheezits and a half-gallon of ice cream. I look nothing so much as terrifically bloated, but am wearing maternity pants because surely it is Not Good For the Baby to be stuffing my belly into my old pants. I know the extra lump is baby, but it will be really nice to have that apparent to the rest of the world. I feel like getting one of those shirts that defensively proclaims "BABY!" so that total strangers on the Metro know that I haven't just been binging away. Sometimes I realize how insane I am, because does anyone really look at other people during the commute and play "Fat or Pregnant?" And if the answer is yes, please don't tell me.