First of all, and really mainly, thank you for all your lovely comments and congratulations! You all are just the best - so kind and thoughtful and enthusiastic.
I really was worried about posting about it, and I want to hug you all. You made me feel really good. Particularly in a period where I generally feel like crap pretty much all the time.
Plus it is such a fucking relief to be able to talk about it.
Nick is really excited. I'm excited. And terrified. And exhausted and bitchy. And a number of other things.
You'd think the knocked up would be an easier thing to post about than a lot of the other super-personal information that I share. But it was scary. Because I've been holding my breath, ready for it to just go away at any moment. And it still could.
I'm at nine weeks, which means four to go till thirteen, which is the end of the first trimester, and apparently when your risk of miscarriage drops significantly. But you just don't know.
And did you know that this whole business is 40 fucking weeks? More than nine months! More like ten! Did you know this? I did not.
I felt kind of tricked. A whole extra month. That's almost as long as an elephant - they're pregnant for 13 months, I think.
Honestly. But anyway.
I was trying very hard to wait until that point. And then, sometime last week, Nick got comfortable with the idea of talking about it. And the truth is, you really don't know what's going to happen. And it's just easier for me to live life out loud.
I hate keeping secrets. I mean, I can keep other people's to the grave. But my own exhaust me.
And this is something I think about in some way practically every single minute. Mostly because I'm so fucking tired. All. The. Time. And my pants don't fit. And I can't drink. And I get out of breath walking up one flight of stairs. And I briefly and irrationally loathe my husband for something completely ridiculous approximately once a day.
Like, suddenly I'm all, "Does he have to pour his tea that loudly? Dickhead."
Or something equally stupid. I'm not kidding.
It's even worse with strangers.
Anyway, I still have a fuckpile of work. January is shaping up to be craptacularly busy in the work department.
Clearly the preg-work combo is doing nothing for my epheral attempt at profanity reduction. It has kind of gone out the fucking window at this point.
The good news is, I just don't think it would bother me to have profane children.