D'oh!

Today marks the last day of my eighth week of pregnancy, meaning that my little embryo has shed its tiny top hat and has graduated to the distinguished ranks of fetus-hood. Huzzah!

I had a real nervous moment last night, when I checked my voicemail last night and realized that my nurse, Joan, had attempted to call me. In her message she assured me that it wasn't urgent, but that she wants to discuss the results of my blood test with me.

My first thought was that she was going to tell me that I'm anemic. I have been anemic for about 15 years now; I've taken iron supplements on and off throughout that time, but the pills are huge and the habit never really stuck. But I've been eating plenty of green leafy things since I married Marcus, and of course for the past month I've been taking pre-natal vitamins, so I thought that my iron level would be pretty okay by now.

Well, I was wrong. I got in contact with Joan this morning and she told me that the minimum "good" level of iron is 35, and I leveled in at 29.5 (not even close!!!), leafy greens and pre-nates and all. So now I've got to start taking iron supplements twice a day in addition to the pre-nates, which equates to a total of three gigantic pills every single day (maybe four, if the iron constipates me and I need to take something for that as well) throughout my pregnancy (and perhaps through nursing as well!). Dammit.

Convenience

Today I am 7 weeks pregnant, and I am eternally grateful for my cubicle's proximity to the bathroom. Whenever I start thinking, "Gee, I don't feel pregnant," I receive a gentle reminder, like an unexpected jag of crying and vomiting (thankfully, alone) in the bathroom at work and then topping it all off with a bloody nose.

At least it's Friday, I guess.

Pro-family. Pro-child. Pro-choice.

I've been meaning to type this up for a few days now, but I was suddenly hit with that pregnant woman's fatigue that I've been reading about. I'm able to stay more or less awake and alert during the work day, but once I get home...it's like I've been drugged. I can barely keep my eyes open, and it doesn't seem to matter if I get 8 hours or 12 hours of sleep or more. I spent only about 5 hours on all of Sunday really awake; the rest of the time I was either totally unconscious or completely zombified and struggling against the urge to sleep (I wanted to watch The Simpsons, okay?).

Anyway, I'm taking the time to write this now. I'm vehemently pro-choice (as is my husband), and still am, and a couple of my not-so-pro-choice friends seem to find this a tad contradictory. I've been asked whether I think my views will change after all this; I don't think so. If anything, now that I am where I am (6w4d, yay!), my assertion that no woman or girl should be forced to endure pregnancy and childbirth against her will has been strengthened.

My body has been changing, and most of those changes have been not so fun, even though I've only been experiencing very mild symptoms so far. I've been reading about the changes that are yet to come, and about the trial that is childbirth, and I've gotta say that I absolutely cannot imagine what it would be like to go through this if I didn't want to. That reality seems absolutely horrific to me, and to force anyone to endure it against their will is barbaric. And I'm one of the lucky ones, with my mild symptoms and good money and eager father-to-be and health insurance. This shit is hard. This shit is scary. This shit will change me forever. And because of that, it needs to be entirely voluntary.

I've also received comments from my friends when I refer to the little stowaway as my baby. They've been quick to interject, "It's not a baby, it's a parasite/embryo, remember?" Right. I've said before and I'll say again that I believe that every woman has the right to define her own pregnancy. Developmentally, an embryo is an embryo; a fetus is a fetus; a baby is a baby; a child is a child; an adult is an adult; and a cat is a cat. These things are what they are, and nothing but time can change that (although the cat stands a pretty good chance of always being a cat).

But when it comes to developing relationships, that is utterly objective, and no one but the woman whose body is currently being held hostage has the right to define this relationship, if she chooses to have one. Thus, even though an embryo is an embryo, my husband is a man, and my cat is a cat, my relationships with them as I've defined them gives me the freedom to call each and every one of them my baby. It's a term of endearment that I've assigned to the focus of my various relationships (hell, plenty of people even refer to their cars as babies), and I find nothing strange nor contradictory about using it.

I'm excited about this pregnancy, as I have the right to be, and I'm excited about the relationship I've chosen to have with the embryo in my body, and I'm excited about being a mom sometime next year. And I support every woman and girl's right to decide the same way...or not. It's that simple.

Et Tu, Rocky?

I called Rocky and Charlie's caretakers last night just to check up on them and see how the boys are doing. She said that Charlie is totally adorable, cuddly, and has woken her up at 3 in the morning by massaging his claws into her face. That's par for the course for Charlie.

I also learned that Rocky, to my horror, has apparently come excitedly running to his temporary parents when they called his name on at least one occassion.

Do you know how many times in the four months we've had him that Rocky has come running to us when we call his name? None! How many times he's come sauntering smoothly over when we called his name? None! How many times he's even turned his head in our direction and acknowledged us in any way? You see where this is going, I'm sure.

In the span of two days, Rockstar has already shown more affection and obediance to his caretakers than he has ever shown to Marcus and me. I can either conclude that he actually does love somebody else more than me, or that he is going through separation anxiety and is clinging to anyone that gives him attention right now.

I know it makes me a bad person to secretly hope that it is the latter and not the former. So I won't admit to that, although I will admit to being jealous. Instead just let me close by saying a few cathartic words:

Rocky is a cheating harlot. There I said it.

An Uninvited Guest

It's been an eventful few days since my last update. In the course of that single weekend, I've had to evacuate my home, give away my kitties (temporarily, but my heart hurts just the same), and go back to living in a tiny room in my parents' house - only, instead of having the small space to myself, I have to share it with another full-grown human being (my husband, of course).

The reason? Mold. There is black mold growing in the basement bathroom, and our appointment to have it sampled and tested is not until Saturday. Since we have no way of knowing until then whether it is mold of the toxic variety, we are playing it safe, which means that my house will lie empty and cold for Christmas.

There are three things that upset me most about this situation. In no particular order, they are:

• Money. Mold remediation is not at all inexpensive.
• My cats. They are staying with a friend and I miss them terribly. A couple times I've mistaken the sound of the children in my mom's daycare downstairs to be the sound of Rocky chirping or meowing, before remembering that they aren't there. I've also got a rather immature fear that Rocky and Charlie are going to end up loving their caretakers more than they love me.
• My little passenger. I have no way of knowing how, if at all, the spores in my house could have affected her development. There just isn't any hard data out there on this sort of thing. I've found all sorts of terrifying anecdotes, but that's it.

The best I can hope for, as far as peace of mind goes, is that the mold is confirmed as something more harmless, rather than the nasty stuff. We'll see how it goes.

The Magic of Science!

Me: "The embryo is super tiny. Like a grain of rice." Pause. "I bet it's wearing a top hat."

Him: "Um, I don't think that they have 'top hat cells'."

Me: "What are you talking about? Stem cells can become anything!"

From Fearfully Cynical to Cautiously Optimistic

One of the first things the nurse at Planned Parenthood told me - after "Congratulations" - was that I might not want to tell too many people about my pregnancy this early in the game. The chance of miscarriage at this point is still pretty high; I've read estimates ranging from 10% to as high as 25%. So her advice was to play it safe, and I agreed with her that anything could happen and therefore it would be better to downplay it until the second trimester.

Since then, I've heard the same sentiment from half a dozen people at least, including my mother-in-law. I signed up for a weekly pregnancy calendar update on a maternity website, and yesterday's email consisted of the message "It's exciting, but you should probably keep it between you and your husband." When my husband told his friends, one of them immediately said that we should "protect our hearts" by not getting our hopes up too high.

Well, after seven days of acute paranoia, I have decided to scrap that fucking plan. I am having no fun. This pregnancy, the only thing that I have always wanted from life, has so far brought very little of the joy I had always imagined it would, because I'm spending every single minute being afraid to lose it.

The way I see it, if I have a miscarriage at any point, I will have spent my entire pregnancy miserable before it came to an upsetting end. If I don't have a miscarriage and nothing else tragic happens, then I will have spent a healthy chunk of my pregnancy miserable before it came to a wonderful end. If I miscarry, I will be sad, no matter when (if) it happens or what my state of mind was before it happens.

So, in the interest of actually enjoying my newfound state, I am saying goodbye to all of that shit. I am ready to step into my role as the ecstatic young wife and mother-to-be. I am ready to bond with the little bean in my belly. After all, it's better to have loved and lost...blah blah blah.

A Word of Advice for Husbands

There are, among a myriad of other things that you could possibly do wrong, at least two sentences that you should never utter to your pregnant wife, no matter how early in the pregnancy she is:

"I think it's psychosomatic."

and

"You didn't start having symptoms until after you knew you were pregnant."

I shouldn't have to explain that I didn't even know that shortness of breath and nosebleeds were first trimester symptoms until I started having them, panicked, Googled it, and then breathed a sigh of relief. You should just trust me when I say that these things that started happening a few days ago really did just start happening a few days ago. There are going to be a lot of changes, a lot of scary new things happening, and I shouldn't have to worry about whether or not it's really just all in my head. If anything, now that I do know that I'm pregnant, now really is the time to really start trusting and listening to my body.

An Apt Comparison

Today marks the last day of my fifth week of pregnancy. I have been aware of said pregnancy for six days now. Despite the fact that I am dying to share the news with any and every friend, relative, and supermarket cashier that I know, I haven't made a wide announcement as of yet, and I don't plan to for at least another two months. It's just too early for that. The sober reality is that anything could happen. I don't like to think about it, but I really just can't help it.

As a consolation prize for keeping such a big secret (mostly) to myself, I decided to make a very subtle announcement on my PC wallpaper at work. Whereas I would love to display sepia-toned faces of babies and booties and kids picking their noses, I fear that would be a bit too obvious. Plenty of people walk by my cube every day, and there is nothing to keep them from seeing my background when I'm away from my desk and the computer is locked.

And so began the search for the perfect image. Something that aptly (but subtly!) describes the wondrous process of pregnancy and childbirth, and yet also reflects just how absolutely fucking terrified I am.

After half a day of brainstorming, I found it.

This is the start of something beautiful.