So I’m past the 15 week mark. Apparently this means I’m safely into 2nd tri and should be gallivanting across flowering meadows with my cute new bump and gorgeous pregnancy glow. I should be accompanied by nymphs and flute-playing fairies and should be able to eat whatever I want and have boundless energy.
Not so much. I still throw up pretty much every day. I still can’t eat meat. Last night I passed out, slumped over on my husband’s stomach, at 7:30 p.m. I’m sure as hell not glowing. In fact, I have the worst skin of my life. I smirked my way through adolescence with my once-a-month lone blemish. Now, my chin feels like it contains War and Peace written in braille. It doesn’t look much better. I’ve also recently sprouted a real winner right between the eyes. There’s no dignity in that, my friends.
I tell you this because i promised you the reality of what’s going on. I also tell you because I’m pretty negative and I like to complain. I think that’s partially why my last blog was withering from neglect long before I gave it the official heave-ho. Once I got my BFP, I was so excited and happy that I didn’t have anything to write about.
But Lenny [the fetus is named Lenny while in utero. We're not finding out the sex until delivery, at which point it will change] has rectified that situation quick, fast, andin a hurry. Of course I’m still beyond thrilled to be knocked up. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world (even season tickets at Fenway). That doesn’t mean I’m going to shoot rainbows up your ass about the reality of gestating another human being.
I promised you the reality. It’s not my fault if you forgot your helmet.