The worst part of the first trimester is that you’re not supposed to tell anyone. So you suffer in silence and everyone just assumes you’ve morphed into a chubby, moody, greasy, acne-ridden bitch squad for no good reason.
All you have is the bloke who knocked you up in the first place and that’s a recipe for marital bliss right there.
I didn’t want you to miss out on the
horror joy of my first 12 weeks, so I’ve been keeping a diary to keep you up to date.
WEEKS ONE TO THREE
Yeah, nothing, you know, conception and stuff. GROSS. Look away!
PREGNANT. Blood test confirms it. Enter panic mode. I’m not an excited or positive pregnant person. I’m a panic-until-that-baby-comes-out person. Because I’m a RAY OF SUNSHINE.
Don’t feel pregnant at all. Panic mode intensifies. Obviously results were wrong.
Mother’s Day and, how do you do, morning sickness? Nice to see you again. I’m lying, you’re an arsehole.
I pull up to my Aunty’s house for a big family lunch and worry I’ll step out of the car and throw up on the driveway. My sister hands me her baby and the sickness goes away instantly. Clearly a magical child and I shall not put her down all day long.
I can’t stop eating. I’m eating EVERYTHING in sight. I don’t remember being this ravenous first time around.
I’m going to bed with snacks. I wake up for my 3am wee and get back into bed with a banana or an apple or a handful of biscuits. Because I’m STARVING.
It’s not unusual for me to skip lunch when I’m busy. I’ll have something to nibble on but I won’t eat a proper meal. No more. It’s full-on cooked lunches right now and I get so excited to eat, I go all fidgety. Particularly tinned salmon. Can’t stop eating salmon.
I have a dating scan and am pretty happy to see a little heartbeat fluttering away in there.
One of the girls from my mothers group sends me a message:
“You’re posting a lot of newborn stuff at the moment. Just saying”
I can’t help myself….
“That’s probably because I’m 7 weeks pregnant and have babies on the brain”
She writes back, “Holy fuckballs, I’m 10 weeks!”
Woohoo!! I love having a pregnancy buddy.
Vomit vomit vomit.
Mother Nature is being a TOTAL MOTHER. I had morning sickness for the whole nine months with Thud and I sort of assumed I’d be given a free pass the second time around. No.
I understand the purpose of morning sickness for the first child. It’s supposed to make us more picky with our food so we don’t eat rancid sabre-tooth tiger etc. but surely for your second child, you need to not be vomiting while caring for a toddler. It seems cruel.
Especially when you’re standing at the kitchen sink, throwing up your breakfast with a small person stabbing your thigh with a fork singing “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!” like you’re wilfully ignoring their request to be picked up and ferried about the house like the fucking crown prince.
Just so you know, Mother Nature, I’m WRITING THIS DOWN. So don’t try your baby-brain shit when this little one pops out, because I WILL REMEMBER.
I tell everyone on my facebook page I’m feeling sick. Everyone assumes I have a cold, bless their hearts. Before I had Thud, if I EVER said I felt sick, everyone would say “ooooh….. are you pregnant!?” like they’d cracked the code. Now they just assume I have a cold.
I don’t write one thing all week long. Feel like shite.
I’m an over inflated beach ball. Not because I’m huge (although my more judgemental friends would probably notice I’m porkier than usual) but because I literally feel full of air. Or gas if you want to be accurate.
At some point in Man School, they teach men to tell pregnant women they’re beautiful. It’s sweet, but when you’re flat on the couch, burping, farting and moaning because of all the gas and your husband tells you you’re beautiful, it feels somewhat contrived. Not that it should ever stop, mind you.
Sarge leaves for a 5 day work trip, leaving me and my farty beach ball alone with the Thud child. I’m a gassy, vomiting, ravenous nugget of air with a child who couldn’t give a shit and still needs to be fed, clothed and entertained.
Have I mentioned the nappies? My nose is sensitive at the best of times. This is just torture. WHERE IS MY HUSBAND???
All the emotions. We’re on a drive to Sydney when I mention to Sarge how much I wish I’d brought the donuts that were in the pantry. He tells me he brought them and I burst into tears. I’m just SO. fucking. grateful.
We tell the family I’m pregnant at Thud’s birthday party. Yes, I totally trump his party, but it’s not often we have them all together. The first thing out of my father-in-law’s mouth is “Make this one a girl, ok?”
Um sure, let me get to work on choosing the gender of my ten week old fetus…. it’s just that easy. (For the record, I think it’s a blue one again.)
The Sarge is away for work again which means I’m AAALLLL alone. I hate life. This couldn’t be any worse. Could it? Don’t tell me it could or I might set fire to something.
I know I’m a whinger, but this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I have a toddler to wrangle, a small business to run, a blog to maintain, a part-time job to turn up for and I have to do it all while trying not to throw up on people. And I’m getting no help from ANYONE.
I keep telling random people I’m pregnant. I’m sick of this suffering in silence shit.
Have my 12 week scan and it all looks great. I’m apparently five days more pregnant than we thought. Huh? Maybe that explains why I’m so fat already.
Yes, I’m officially huge. My abs have packed up and gone on smoko with the council workers down the road. They’ve unionised and they’re not willing to work under these conditions. My mother asks if I’m sure it’s not twins.
Let’s not mention the belly button. It seems to have detached itself sometime during the last pregnancy and has, unbeknownst to me, been floating, unrestrained this whole time. And now, with the gentlest of encouragement, it’s standing out and proud, wild and free, uncontrolled and unrefined. It’s disturbing.
A friend helpfully suggested it could be herniated. So now I’m thinking about that… Ta xx
The only solace is that while I look fat, my belly is firm. The fat roll is up under my boobs because the pregnant bit won’t fold in half.
S.E.X on legs.
I’m also about as bright as a house brick. I used the wrong ‘here’ in a sentence and when I was berating myself in a message to a friend, I used the wrong ‘to’. If you know me, you know that’s unforgivable and unprecedented. I’m still not over it. I can say they were typos but that’s no excuse. Obviously my eyes can’t see errors anymore.
THANK YOU HORMONES. How lovely of you to stop by. Thanks for the lemon meringue tart. I’ll see you out now. Oh no? You’re staying for 6 more months? Well, fuck.
BONUS WEEK THIRTEEN
Time to announce! Thud’s thrilled.
Do you remember your first trimester? Please tell me your horror stories. It will make me feel better.