This post is for the ladies, and for the gentlemen who are interested in learning about week 6 pregnancy symptoms. Consider yourself warned, though I do use discretion in determining what's fit to post
At 5 weeks and 3 days, I think that puts me in week 6 of pregnancy. I'm not sure; pregnancy math is confusing. Because I have completed 5 weeks, meaning the gestational age of the baby is just over 3 weeks....so obviously, I'm in week 6. Or I'm in week 5. Little help here?
To review, according to my very fuzzy pregnancy math, Little P is about the size of - you guessed it - a pea. How can something so very small be causing such big issues for mama?
"They" say that the signs and symptoms of pregnancy often kick in at week 6, but I beg humbly to differ. I've felt queasy for two weeks now, often worse in the evenings. Ginger ale and peppermint tea are my new best friends. I've been more exhausted than usual, grabbing quick naps in my office once or twice each day. This could reflect pregnancy-related fatigue, or be simply a function of waking up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Every night. Either way, productivity is dwindling, and I'm hoping for the fabled second-trimester energy surge.
Also, my ability to button my pants comes and goes - I can't wait til Becca arrives for our maternity-clothes-bargain-shopping trip this weekend, so I can nail down some pants that I can count on to fit comfortably. I asked Brittany to lend me her Bella Band last week and she looked at me funny (over the phone). She told me later that she was thinking my, what a fast-growing baby! But no, as precocious as our child is bound to be, it's simply the gift of the early pregnancy bloat. (Belly pictures to come!)
I am actually quite grateful for all the signs and symptoms of pregnancy. They are a sweet reminder of how very blessed we are with this gift of new, developing life. I will take nausea and fatigue any and every day if it means that the Lord sees fit to fill our quiver with children.
Hormones, you ask? Oh, not much. (Joel, why are you laughing?)
So the other night, Joel graciously offered to make peppermint tea to help settle my stomach while we played Super Mario Brothers Wii (pronounced effeminately: wheeeeeeee!). I sipped this gratefully until we reached a breaking point, at which we decided to watch an online episode of something or other, and Joel suggested ice cream. He also suggested that, since he had made the tea, perhaps I could scoop the ice cream.
WELL.
You would have thought he suggested that I hike to the top of the Alps to milk the goat to churn my own ice cream with my bare hands, uphill both ways. I'm not even sure what my face looked like, but I remember Joel's terrified expression belying his fear of imminent, painful death. For my part, I flopped dramatically onto the couch and just laid there, unsure of what to say. Because a small piece of my rational mind still gasped for breath, and was sending a desperate S.O.S. for me to pull. it. together. I seriously almost cried.
In the end, I'm happy to report that Joel scooped (generous portions of) ice cream for both of us.
And the following evening when we wanted ice cream again, he tentatively suggested that perhaps if I wanted to and wasn't feeling too tired at the moment, and it would be totally up to me, but maybe I could possibly scoop some ice cream if I felt like it?
I don't remember the outcome to Ice Cream, Part the Second, so surely that means I was both rational and amenable to his suggestion. My husband is wonderful. He is sensitive and caring, and learns from mistakes which are not even worthy to be called true mistakes. Joel, you've got 34 more weeks to perfect the art of supportive clairvoyance.
Cue "We've Only Just Begun" and Joel requiring therapy....