So.

We weren’t exactly “trying,” as they say, but we knew we were ready, so we decided to stop not trying…somewhat recently. If nothing happened by the holidays, we were planning to start paying more attention.

Today is the 12-week mark. By Thanksgiving, our kid will be able to hear our voices through my by-then-ever-expanding belly.

To be honest, we thought — and I worried — that it would take a little longer. I’m 35 (so it’s been about eight years since that annoying nurse practitioner told me I should, you know, make with the procreating). After 18 years on one Pill or another, my body was a little loopy when the pills ran out. And by “a little loopy,” I mean that the math and the magic still aren’t really aligned.

Eighteen years, y’all. I have no idea what my “natural” cycle is — I haven’t left that up to my body since high school.

(Thanks, Planned Parenthood — you’re the best! ~Fertile Fucking Myrtle)

I would like to note that I first saw two pink lines on a pee stick on the very day that Mitt Romney announced his running mate. I STOPPED DRINKING THE DAY PAUL RYAN JOINED THE REPUBLICAN TICKET. Not drinking isn’t a big deal, but witnessing this particular election cycle unblunted and through the Pregnancy Hormone Haze is asking a lot of a wonk. Fortunately, I have an excellent excuse for, say, sleeping through the debates.

I’ve always wanted to avoid being super-pregnant during the hottest months, though, so…that worked out.

I also went cold-turkey on caffeine that first day, which is how Graham learned the results of that early test. It’s not every day I say, “Honey, you can have ALL the coffee” with a smile. (It’s none of the days, ever, so he knew something was up.) The headaches only took a week to subside and I have fully embraced chai lattes with almond milk.

Pregnancy has been tiring and uncomfortable and exhilarating. The worst symptoms so far are persistent fatigue and low-grade nausea. I’m not throwing up (I generally avoid that even when I really, really should just go ahead and puke), but for most of the first trimester I didn’t want to eat anything but peanut butter sandwiches and grapes. Thank goodness calorie intake doesn’t matter much at first — I lost a couple of pounds coming out of the gate. Graham has been on his own for a lot of dinners (and the leftovers), even when I’ve been able to cook.

We kept a lid on it, for the most part, until we could have a doctor (well, nurse practitioner — my doctor books up like escort services in a convention city) confirm the news. And by “confirm,” I mean “tell us we’re further along than we thought, abruptly canceling the rest of our (= my) First Trimester Worry Schedule.” I walked into that office a little over eight weeks pregnant and walked out pushing 11 weeks. ZOOM!

To be fair, the NP did give me something else to worry about. Her exam irritated the hell out of my insides and dialed my innocent and totally normal spotting up to Stuck Pig for a day and a half. So I guess we’re even.

This is why pregnancy tests come in multiples, right? Testing at 11 weeks just to be sure is TOTALLY NORMAL, according to the internet (for values of “internet” equal to “funny blogs I read”).

Hey, maybe that’s why the NP asked if I wanted to schedule a follow-up in two weeks, even though I was already on the calendar with my doctor in four. Maybe she knew the aftermath of her exam would put my overworked heart on dry ice and make me want another ultrasound stat. If so, I call foul. In addition to “Just make sure you’re healthy and eating well and getting enough rest,” she could have muttered a simple “So, tomorrow, you’re going to wonder if you’ve had a miscarriage, but it’s just amplified irritation you usually have to deal with after these exams.” THAT would have been useful guidance.

Anyway.

I’m resting when I can. I’m taking vitamins and calcium. The nausea has gotten better; instead of most of the day, it tends to hit at dinnertime now (although giving one person nausea, constipation, and bloating all at the same time is a very cruel joke of nature). I’ve got acne on my forehead, chin, and back. My nails look AWESOME and my hair is growing like mad. My belly is starting to pooch out enough that I don’t want to wear half my clothes, even though they technically still fit. A lot of my old work clothes have been too big for a while now, though, so pregnancy has had the unintended consequence of making me dress better for my in-office days.

To come: Hopes, dreams, complaints, concerns, and belly shots. (Don’t hold me to that last one.)