As of this writing, I’m 20 weeks, 2 days pregnant. This means I’m a smidge over halfway through the official medically-designated pregnancy length of 40 weeks.
Where oh where did the time go.
Observations up to this point:
I strongly dislike being pregnant. I’m still looking forward to the end result, but I am decidedly NOT one of those women who is all blissful and glowy and bursting with the joy of impending new life. I am cranky and tired and bursting with gas and heartburn and a bad back.
I am, however, becoming a big fan of pants with huge elastic waists. So comfy!
We had the 20-week ultrasound, conveniently scheduled for 19 weeks, 5 days (thanks, midwives), so the ultrasound tech wouldn’t tell us the sex of the baby. This thanks to the hordes of assholes who are apparently out there waiting for any excuse to destroy a fetus who isn’t their preferred gender. Because at 20 weeks, on the nose, they’ll change their mind? Or something? Who knows.
The tech did show us the money shot, without comment, and after some contemplation, discussion, and furious hunting on google images at home we’ve decided it looks like it’s probably a boy. I’m guessing (hoping) the midwives have the info in our file at their office and will confirm at our next appointment.
If not, I’ll probably insist we go fork out for one of those creepy 3D ultrasounds at a private clinic.
Have I mentioned that the amount of patience I posses seems to be inversely proportionate to the size of my waistline?
Either way, the ultrasound was neat, and introduced the phase at which Neil starts to compare me to a goat. Apparently human ultrasounds are just like goat ultrasounds, where you position the wand certain ways to view different layers of anatomy and can check size measurements, organ structure, etc. Except of course for goats, twins are a lot more common. Oh. AND IT’S A BARNYARD ANIMAL.
Though I suppose I could forgive him for wanting to make the comparison – I’m practically furry with the fine layer of hair I’ve grown pretty much all over my body. But still. I don’t bleat (so far).
The other most obvious bit of unpleasantness is my back constantly going out. Thanks to the changes in hormones so my pelvis can widen my back is entirely unstable and I seem to injure my SI joint every other week. I can’t walk up stairs. I can’t lift anything over about 15lbs. I can’t walk for more than an hour. Otherwise I’m a cripple for about 3 days.
I have also become quite insistent with the “nesting,” nagging about getting around to the long-overdue cleaning out of closets and moving of furniture so we have room for this extra person and his (her?) paraphernalia before he (she?) arrives. Except, of course, thanks to the back thing I can’t actually DO any of the cleaning and moving. I can just do the nagging and directing.
And yet, Neil still brings me flowers. Have I mentioned he’s up for sainthood?
On another tiny, positive note, I do have a small bump and so far no sign of stretch marks. My mom didn’t get them, even with twins, so I’ve got genetics on my side for that one.
I can also still roll over in bed without assistance, and now that my uterus has moved up and off my bladder, and the wee babe isn’t yet big enough to noticeably stomp on it, I can sleep through the night a lot of the time without getting up to pee. Small victories.
Considering this is supposed to be the “honeymoon phase” of the pregnancy (and I will admit it’s nice to be rid of the nausea), I am expecting it to get worse again, and biding my time for the next 19 weeks, 5 days.
And anyone who dares suggest I’ll be even a minute overdue is going to get a face-full of angry pregnant woman ready to destroy them.