Week 7

Hello, dear readers.  So it turns out that I’m knocked up.  Surprise!  I’m entering my second trimester now.  The following was written during the delirious 7th week of my pregnancy, which easily fit into the Top Five Worst Weeks of My Life.  I swear I’m not only going to write about being pregnant from here on out, but I had a bunch of venting bottled up over the past few months and managed to write a little when I wasn’t vomiting.

Oh, yeah, also, some of this might contain TMI and some nonsensical ranting ;)


All I want to do is sleep, poop, and complain.

Why yes, I am in my first trimester, however did you know?

There are a lot of unmagical things about getting pregnant, but one of the most unmagical things is that first trimester where you have ALL THE FEELS, but you can’t talk to any damn person except for the man who got you into this mess in the first place.

Okay, that’s not fair to M Fox. Half of this situation is my fault.  Something about being simultaneously nauseated and starving all the time sorta saps my magnanimity.

Now I’ve never been pregnant before (I can say that most assuredly — there is NO MISTAKING THIS), but I’m pretty sure this is the worst part.  Specifically the not being able to talk to anyone in the first 4+ months (assuming you conceive quickly) of this whole friggen process.

When you’re trying to get pregnant, you have to come up with all sorts of stupid reasons not to drink or eat sushi or any myriad of delightful things that a sane adult would enjoy.  I’m on antibiotics, I think I’m getting sick *fakecoughfakecough*, I almost considered telling people that I was an alcoholic just so they’d get off my back.  Because if there’s one thing that will trip the BITCH IS PREGNANT alarm in all surrounding late-20s-and-up women, it’s saying “I’ll have a coke” at a bar.  Exhausting.  Especially if it takes you awhile to conceive because then every alcoholic drink you decline is letting another five people know that YOU’RE TRYING AND ARE YOU PREGNANT YET?  (Side note: We didn’t have that issue. Apparently my eggs were RARING TO GO.)

So that’s the first stupid thing you have to keep your mouth shut about.

Then you get knocked up. Hooray! You do your little two-line happy dance, you feel all euphoric and you call your doctor.

Who says, “Take another test just to make sure.”

Just to make sure of WHAT? That I’m not some lunatic who drew in the second line?

No no, I understand, just to make sure it wasn’t a “chemical” pregnancy or your cheap ass didn’t buy faulty tests. Kay, no prob.

Wait another two days, turn down a sushi lunch date (“But WHY? You LOVE sushi! Are you AVOIDING sushi?!  IS THERE SOMETHING YOU WANT TO TELL ME?!”) and endure the barmaid’s pitying look at the karaoke bar as she comps your diet, and THEN take another test.  Is the magic still there?

The test is positive. You’re not crazy! Or a liar! Whoohoo! You call the doctor because surely she’ll want to see you right away as you are nature’s miracle and need-

Eight weeks? Oh. Yeah, I mean, yeah, I can come in in eight weeks. No prob. Anything I should- no? Okay, well, uh, yeah. Eight weeks. Like two months? Okay. Yeah, I’ll see you then.

When you were trying to conceive, could you think of anything more excruciating than the two week wait?


You’ve got at LEAST two whole months of SHHHH (three is recommended, just in case!!!!!!!!!) because if you tell folks and then end up miscarrying or the fetus ends up having two heads, you’re going to have to explain why after weeks of abstaining, you’re suddenly pounding booze and chain smoking while eating live raw fish out of a stream like a grizzly — activities that normally wouldn’t be questioned, obviously.

But it’s not the nice quiet earnest waiting like during the two-week wait where every day is filled with the promise of a beautiful future. Oh no. I mean, it starts out that way. And you’re all giggly and you might even name the damn thing something like “little peanut” or “little nugget” or “doodle.”  And you and your spouse will share private precious looks across crowded rooms because only the two of you are in on this beautiful secret.

Don’t you just want to puke?

No, literally?

All the time?

Cus that’s next.  Then you’re exhausted and can’t stay up past 8pm.  You know what’s harder to explain than just denying a glass of wine?  FALLING ASLEEP ON SOMEONE’S COUCH AT 3PM.  Farting constantly because you’re so constipated that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to wipe your own ass.  Being so delirious from fatigue that you’re willing to write the previous sentence and genuinely don’t give a shit (*sob*) what people think about it.

And the worst thing?  THE WORST THING?

You can’t complain about it to anyone.  Beyond the fact that no one but a pregnant woman can completely understand this state of being, and beyond the fact that no one INCLUDING a pregnant woman wants to hear about it, you can’t say anything to anyone because you have to keep this little miracle a SECRET.

Because what IF it doesn’t pan out.

There’s a cheery thought!

All this pain and bloat and illness could be for fucking nothing. Your stupid body could at any moment just reject this little peanut and then you’d have built up all this happiness and endured all this horror for no god damn reason.

So in your weakest, sickest, what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-my-body state, you have to suck it up in case you ruin it by being so god damn negative all the time. Live with that, mama.


Oh, and by the way, everyone’s magic pregnancy journey is TOTALLY different. Some women bleed through the whole damn pregnancy (surprise!), some women don’t show until their third trimester. Every statistical possibility exists in pregnancy.  I realize that every statistical possibility exists in, well, everything, but in pregnancy, the probability of all those possibilities ACTUALLY existing is higher.

Oh lighten up, I know that sounds stupid and probably made no sense.


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