Conventional wisdom says that you never, ever announce a pregnancy before the 13th week because of the high chance of miscarriage, and sadly, I have a few friends who have experienced that first hand recently. When I was pregnant with Charlotte, I had every intention of honoring this cardinal rule. In reality, I think I made it to week 7 or 8. Not only am I terrible at keeping my thoughts and experiences to myself (as I think is obvious), I am also very vain and love to complain (equally obvious). Given that I felt and looked like crap by week 7 or 8, with a face full of zits and an extra 10 pounds and counting, the entire world just had to be informed that I was NOT fat nor going insane, I was just pregnant. Given that I packed on about 15 lbs in the first trimester, I was soon informing everyone I met, total strangers, and even the odd squirrel of this fact within 5 seconds of encountering them.
For those who secretly tut-tut at me for complaining so much about being a mother, it will come as a tremendous surprise to hear that I have a sequel in the works. And once again, I am announcing early, so as to squeeze every last opportunity for whining out of this pregnancy and to excuse myself early on for what looks to be another massive weight gain. I certainly had to announce this before my husband's 20th high school reunion in a few weeks, at which his ex-girlfriend will be present, and she can NOT be allowed to think that I am even a little fat. And I am not fat, I am pregnant (OK, so I am a little bit fat). Please do not congratulate me, all I had to do was quit using birth control and repeatedly sleep with a very hot man.
I honestly can't believe I am submitting myself to this again. My last pregnancy was "healthy" but nonetheless a misery--12 weeks of 24-hour nausea, depression, rapid weight gain, total exhaustion, and viral acne followed by raging sciatica and more weight gain, culminating in about 50 pounds total and including enough excess amniotic fluid to allow me to petition NASA for planetary status and subsequently drown several medical professionals when my water broke in the hospital (thank GOD it was in the hospital, we had no flood insurance at the time). And that was the easy part. I will write more on my experience with breast feeding (oh, you know I will write more on breast feeding, one of my goals in life is to stamp out the barbaric practice. Kidding, sort of), but for now I will say I am still deeply scarred, as evidenced by the angry tirade I went on at a recent dinner party in conversation with the pregnant hostess. Between that and the store-bought pie I brought, I think I am definitely in danger of expulsion from that supper club.
This time out is going accordingly. I thought I had evaded the nausea, because it set in a few weeks after I tested positive vs. a few minutes after I tested positive. But it definitely arrived. Cruelly and strangely enough, my impulse when feeling nauseous is to graze on fatty foods, and when you pair that with barely having enough energy to put on deodorant, it's not a pretty picture. Fortunately, I lost extra weight after my last baby so I am starting from a lower basement. But a whale is a whale, and still in danger of being harpooned so its blubber can be turned into soap and heating oil, whether it weighs 500 lbs or 510 lbs. The main difference this time is that I already have a Weight Watchers membership and The Obama is president, so there is hope. And change. But first there is obesity, I don't think even The Obama can help me out there. Maybe Michelle can, with that nice vegetable garden she has going. Except that I can't stand the concept of a vegetable right now. So there you go.
So consider yourselves warned. Things are about to get ugly. Or rather, uglier.