Approximately six weeks and six days knocked up. Four weeks and six days post positive pee test. Five days pre ultrasound. Denial meets panic meets cautious optimism. Very cautious. As in look both ways and question the results of all nine pee-on pregnancy tests and all four betas because, c’mon. It’s theoretically possible all those home tests were retrograde defective and the clinic confused our results with those of some other couple.
What’s more possible is the likelihood that despite the rising HcG:piss quotient, and in spite of tolerable (but numerous) symptoms of growing progeny, sometimes the bod plays tricks on us. My preferred Internet search engine tells me miscarriage impacts 15% of women my age during any given cycle and the dreaded blighted ovum accounts for a goodly portion of these.
Which is why I still haven’t warmed to the idea that I might have a baby. I can hardly get over the fact that I’m pregnant.
And then I smell an onion. Or I catch the trailer for next week’s Biggest Loser. Or I behold my own nipples. And…well, the reality is frankly hard to ignore: I feel like barfing. Epic weight-loss stories warm my heart. And these boobs are amazing. Just saying.