Gingerbread Woman

Next time, it's coming from a catalogue....

You start off going 'that's daft, how can I possibly be twelve weeks pregnant when I only had sex ten weeks ago?'. Well, I do. Those of you nicely coupled probably don't count down the days from your last shag in quite the same way.
Then you get used to it. Forget that it's nuts and start counting from two weeks before the actual deed with reckless abandon.
Then people start talking about trimesters. There's three, and working on the nine month thing, it's a natural assumption that each last three months. You hear a lot that the first and last ones are frankly, pants, but the middle one is where you get full of energy and bloom all over the shop. I assume I'm heading to the middle one today. Cos today is twelve weeks, three months, one trimester, right?
Wrong. I discover reading under the duvet, last night.
Suddenly, for the transformation from a weary vomiting pasty to blooming, the two weeks when you're not actually pregnant that count, don't.
I don't know I can bear another two weeks of this trimester.
Sleeping, even to a girl like me that's done it on floors, in lecture theatres, on long distance coaches, is suddenly a skill beyond me. Feeling human, ditto. After a couple of weeks of 'I'm not getting the morning sickness' euphoria (quite common at the start I've since read), it sledgehammers you. 24 / 7. Then there's the fact that the only things that cure it are carbs. Bland, tasteless, stodgy carbs. Potatoes, bread, crackers, biscuits. Food in fact with zero nutrients that turn one into a nothot, cross, bun.

It's enough to make me vow that if, and believe me, it's a bloody big if, I do decide to have more kids, they're, without a doubt, coming from the body of another hormone wracked wrench.

posted by The Gypsy @ 6:20 pm