It’s been a while since I blogged.
February. I wrote a ranty confessional post, upon yet another period arriving, about the ‘joys’ of trying to conceive.
Er. So. About that.
Within twenty four hours of writing that blog post, the period that sparked the ranting just seemed to… dry up. Vamoose.
That night I had a massive howling breakdown on my husband’s lap about a smelly stuffed monkey that had gone mouldy and had to be thrown away. When we moved house. In November.
Then a little later, sitting on the sofa minding my own business, I had the weirdest, spiky, prodding pains in my tummy. Something I’d never had before. It only lasted a few minutes, but it was enough to spook me.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
Yes. The next morning, when my husband had gone to work, I got out one of my several thousand cheapy pee sticks and had a little go; even though I’d tested (repeatedly) before the period showed up and it had all been a resounding no. But the period had gone. Better to be safe than sorry, I guessed.
Was that… a line?
I held it up to the light. I squinted. I started to shake a tiny bit. It looked like a line. Only a faint one, but a line. Having spent a lot (a lot) of time looking at angry white spaces on pregnancy tests over the previous few months, I was pretty sure I could tell the difference.
I didn’t let myself get too excited. Could have been an evap line. Could have been me finally cracking and hallucinating.
But I had a more expensive First Response test in the drawer. Ahh, what’s the harm?
Definitely a line.
Still faint, but there was no mistaking it. Brazenly pink, there it was.
I started really shaking. I think I may have also been somewhere between sobbing and hysterically laughing. While also blasting Halestorm through the bathroom at ear-splitting volume. My neighbour must have thought the world was ending.
I had one shot left in my arsenal: the one I’d been saving especially for this occasion. Back when I’d first mentioned the whole trying-for-a-baby business, my best friend had bought me one of the most expensive pregnancy tests on the market, an all-singing Clearblue Digital. I wanted to save it for a time when I could actually be pregnant, when I wouldn’t have the crushing disappointment of starkly being told ‘NOT PREGNANT’ in big black letters.
It came up in seconds.
‘PREGNANT: 1-2 WEEKS’.
Cue absolute howling and approximately forty five missed calls to my husband (I ended up barrelling into his work to tell him because he couldn’t pick up the phone in the middle of a lunchtime rush).
I was pregnant.
And approximately twenty weeks later, I still am.
So this poor blog got rather neglected. Firstly, of course, I didn’t want to break the whole pregnancy news until after 12 weeks. Superstitious like that, and I had a horrible case of anxiety that it was all going to go wrong. It didn’t help that I was in and out of hospital with bleeding on and off for those first twelve weeks. It’s still kind of going on now, to be honest; I was back there again yesterday, though everything is fine. Stress, etc, bla bla bla.
I did mean to carry on with my 52 book challenge, but I couldn’t. Firstly, almost everything I was reading was based on either babies or pregnancy, and I thought it might give the game away a little bit. Also, my brain was so full of all things baby, I couldn’t concentrate on any of the nobly literary books I’d planned to read. It just kind of… fell by the wayside.
I just felt that I couldn’t carry on writing on here when my mind was so very, very elsewhere – I thought if I tried writing about, say, what I’d be watching on the TV, I’d just blurt out with “I’M HAVING A BABY EVERYONE A BABY HONEST A REAL ONE WITH FEET AND EVERYTHING” in the middle of a gentle paragraph about my hopes for the next two years in Game of Thrones.
But I’m back now, bump in hand. Boy bump, to be quite precise – we found out a couple of weeks ago, and he’s perfect. Quite the little wriggler, actually; every time a midwife attempts to hear his heartbeat, she has to chase him round my uterus with the doppler because he won’t keep still. He’s somersaulting around right now, actually, giving me a good booting in what remains of my belly button. I’m already bloody enormous, and I’m only just turning twenty four weeks in the morning. I’m going to be the size of the number 22 bus by the time this baby is evicted – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’ve been told by a few people that I’m so (brazenly) honest about pregnancy that I should blog about it. No haze of pregnancy glow around here! Thinking about it, they might have just wanted me to stop rambling on about it to them. Ah well. I’m here now, and although I don’t plan on being one of those ‘mummy bloggers’ with weekly belly-updates and the like, I do intend to prattle a bit more often from now on.
Let the irritating pregnancy blog posts commence!