Pardon the disarray (and the blur); I actually hate messy selfies. I’m also rather chuffed in this photo, and I couldn’t begin to tell you why…
Burgeoning baby bump! I am 14 weeks this week. According to my pregnancy app, Peanut is actually the size of a peach. Mmm…peaches. Too bad I’m allergic. Boo.
I’m gaining weight in the rear, and I have no idea who these thighs belong to, anymore.
I measured myself the other day, and I’m 32 inches around the middle; hips are currently 38 inches. I bought a pair of jeans from AE the other day (I refuse to purchase maternity clothing) and they were a size 10. As evidenced from the photo above, my underwear still fits – and that’s about it. Shorts I wore about two weeks ago don’t make it over my thighs today.
TMI Alert: The ladybits are getting plump, too. I kid you not. I also had no idea it was possible to gain weight down there. Read more
One of the things that no one tells you about pregnancy is that you’re either constantly leaking fluid, or you’re bunged up.
Those who are/have been pregnant know what kinds of leaking can happen, but this is completely new and unexpected to me. Generally a sneeze/cough/laugh (or even trying to pass gas, for heaven’s sake – more on that in a second) elicits a bit o’pee. The pressure on the bladder from a growing bean is the reason, so I’m told.
Another set of organs affected by this pressure are the intestines. As the uterus expands, it squeezes and leans against the intestines, preventing the effective passage of food/waste through the body and out. Hence, constipation. I’ve tried everything from flax (as suggested by my friend Shellene), to dried fruits (which make me gassy – which in turn, makes me pee. Gah!) and water, water, water… Which makes me – oh, you get the idea.
I have suffered from IBS/Gastroparesis for a number of years, so I’m not squeamish about my BMs. However, it always surprises me just how much I miss them when they’re gone. A friend of mine seriously breaks out when she can’t go, so I’m thankful being constipated just makes me uncomfortable, as opposed to acneic.
Like I don’t have enough to deal with right now.
(with apologies to Angel’s cupcakes in New Zealand.)
This whole pregnancy thing comes with a plethora of unimpressive side effects. As my body changes, I’ve been stricken with things like nausea, heartburn, fatigue and general tenderness and malaise – all of which I’ve read up on, or been told about, so none have been any great surprise.
Amidst all of the bleh, there has been one wonderful and unexpected condition that I’ve never heard of, or seen referenced in any of the pregnancy articles or literature I’ve come across thus far:
I am having the most intense sex of my life.
Which is saying a lot; the boy and I have always done well horizontally. Our usual bedroom MO is to make a session last for as many orgasms as he can get out of me. These days, all he has to do is, uh, put the key in the ignition to get me to where I need to go. I simply cannot handle all the goodness. It’s ridiculous – yet strangely fantastic all the same.
The other night, I teased him that I’m training him to become a wham, bam, thank-you-ma’am kind of guy.
“Never,” he scoffed. “But I am the guy who will always give you exactly what you need.”
I had to laugh. He’s so cocky.
No pun intended.
Lately, it’s favourite letter of the alphabet.
And so, we bid a sad adieu to my once-monthly treat of bloody cow flesh and other goodies. Pregnant ladies have no fun.
So, my bloodwork came back from the lab, and now it’s one hundred per cent official. I’m having a bean, and I’m due somewhere around the 28th of February.
After confirming the news and the estimated due date, my doctor gave me a little moms-to-be package to read when I got home, and a quick rundown of all the things I can and cannot do/eat/think/wear/imagine/try now that I am Officially With Child. She also made me my first appointment with an OB GYN. She asked if I wanted a male or female specialist, and to be honest, it really didn’t matter. So she chose Dr. Freedman – “You’ll like her, she’s good,” I was told – and rang up her receptionist to book me for the next month. During the call, she made mention of “patient’s AMA.” When she was done, I asked her what AMA stood for. “Advanced Maternal Age,” came the reply. Doctor-speak for “you’re old and your ovaries are dusty.”
I have a feeling I’m going to be hearing this acronym a lot over the next nine months.
Chez moi, I perused the whack of pamphlets and information that was given to me during my appointment. Read more