I… wasn’t expecting that.

Bright pink, watery blood.
The pregnant side is currently the ouchy side.


Turbo Turbs

Turbo continues to enthusiastically turb, or whatever it is that young turbos do. 17mm, which I’m told equates to 8 weeks & 2 days, and a Christmas Eve due date. Pause to laugh, hollowly and hard. I’ll be damn pleased if we make November.

The sonographer played the 175bpm heartbeat to me, which was something of an emotive shock; it’s been a long time since I heard fetal hooves galloping away in there.

I’m starting to hope, damnit. 

You will be cheered to hear that I feel fairly abysmal. I’m absurdly, comically exhausted, and the now-you-feel-me, now-you-don’t hungry nausea has ramped up noticeably the last couple of days, from a phenomenon largely stemming from an empty stomach, to 24hr solid quease. I’m not much of an actual vommer, thankfully – I have a horror of everting my own stomach contents amounting almost to phobia – but the curdling sensation of Imminence has settled heavily on me. Mare describes it perfectly. Crisps and biscuits are fairly innocuous going down, although not to my waistline, and I was absolutely delighted to read that peanuts are no longer verboten, because I have been lusting after KP Salted for days; today I threw the scales to the winds and purchased a packet. I’ve hidden them from John: I’m buggered if I’m sharing them. Those bad boys are coming to bed with me tonight at 9pm sharp, which is generally as long as I can hold out without eyelid collapse. I shall be sated and asleep by half past. And probably awake again at 3am, nauseous, and reaching for the ginger biscuits.

Remarkably, considering my current high-sugar, high-salt, high-pickles diet, I’ve lost half a stone since I started injectables, but I’m still almost a stone heavier than I was when I became pregnant with Harry. That pregnancy involved some fairly self-indulgent 2nd trimester eating (for two!), which consumption – hopefully – I will be astute enough to avoid this time; I was hideously uncomfortable manoeuvering my inflated carcase – complete with collapsed pelvic ligaments – about by the time Harry arrived. I am desperately hoping to shed some more weight the next couple of months, because the thought of returning to the miserable state of bodily collapse I previously reached at 7 months is worrisome. I am already starting to painfully pull my poorly-healed previously-ripped stomach muscles when I turn over in bed without tensing my abdomen first, which I feel Bodes. Still. I’m not relinquishing my salted peanuts, so there.

Having said all that, most of me is really just fixated on making it as far as next week. This is now officially my Personal Best in the pregnancy ranking after Harry and I am trying to award myself a mental gold star accordingly, although I’d be a damn sight more smiley at 14 weeks. And even more cheerful with a 30 weeker that was still on the blasted growth charts. 

Numbers schnumbers; it’s all impossibly, incalculably far away. This seems to have gone on for so bloody long already; I feel, wearily, that I’ve invested helluva lot more than 8 weeks-worth of terror and nail-chewing.

 Only 32 to go.

%d bloggers like this: