Since we’ve told Brett’s mom, I can now announce it on my blog:

We’re pregnant!

Not very pregnant, just a little shy of seven weeks. But enough pregnant that I’m suffering constant morning sickness, my boobs hurt like hell, and I’m constipated. (This is due to hormones; they slow down the action of the bowels. Insult to injury. Fantastic.)

I’m totally useless. Everything makes me want to hurl. The dog smells bad, food smells bad, everything smells bad. I can’t smoke or drink. I’m off caffeine. I’m off drive thru.

I’m supposed to be eating healthy foods, but all I want is starch: pasta, cream of potato soup, bread and butter, crackers. It’s a fight to eat veggies, and I’m usually all about veggies. (I’m craving a glass of white wine like you wouldn’t believe, but there isn’t any in the house and I don’t want it bad enough to go and drive 26 miles to get it. Europeans drink wine during pregnancy and they make all that yummy stinky cheese so it can’t be all bad.)

I wasn’t sick sick Tuesday, I was just too fucking queasy to be able to survive the commute without hurling.

I thought – we both thought – that I couldn’t have kids. We gave up a couple of years ago, shortly after my last miscarriage. When I peed on a stick two weeks ago, I did it because I was a couple days late and feeling really bloated, and because wasting twelve bucks always gets things flowing.

Surprize!

Because of all the past miscarriages, we didn’t tell anyone at first. I cut my smoking way back, but didn’t bother to quit because I knew I’d soon be miscarrying. I cut out that occasional afternoon second cup of coffee, started taking prenatals, and made it a point not to get drunk, but that was about it. I was waiting for the horrible hormone-driven crying jags followed by pain and cramping from hell.

But Monday was the six-weeks-one-day mark, the day I miscarried last time, and I’m still pregnant. No cramps, no spotting, and the whole stinking array of pregnancy symptoms. (I emailed my midwife when I started feeling queasy, and she said, “Congratulations! An excellent sign!”)

So, we’re excited because we thought this wasn’t going to happen. But I’ll tell you honestly that I feel like ass. It’s like having the stomach flu for two weeks straight. I’m sleeping in a bra, and I never even wear bras! It’s horrible.

I have these nausea attacks; I’ll be walking from one room to another and suddenly be overwhelmed with that I-need-to-puke-NOW! feeling (you’ll remember it from getting shitfaced or having food poisoning). But if I step up to the bowl, it passes.

I’m tired, but I have a hard time falling asleep because all I can think about is how queasy I am and how hard it is to find a position in which Absolutely Nothing is touching my boobs.

I know I sound underwhelmed, but I am happy about it. (What could be better than giving up one’s enire autonomy to watch Tellytubbies and wash diapers?)

I just feel so utterly gross! Brett pats me on the head and says, “I’m sorry you feel rotty, Mushlette.” But he’s grinning when he says it, because in all honesty it is pretty funny when you’re wife’s miserably constipated. He’s being a total dear, and even cleaned up some cat puke yesterday because I could not deal. (Normally I clean up the gross stuff because of his over-developed gag reflex; once he had to plunge a toilet and I nearly killed myself laughing because he was making the worst sounds in there! When he came out of the bathroom, he looked like he’d been crying: he was beet red and his eyes and nose were running. Snort!)

If this one sticks and I carry to term, the estimated delivery date is July 10th. That seems like a really, really long way away when every moment lately drags by in nausea and fatigue.

I hear the second trimester is better.

Ugh. I’m gonna go lay down now.