At a certain point in the first trimester of my pregnancy, I grew some nuts and told my self-pity to bugger off. I wiped the barf from my mouth with my sleeve - like a MAN - and said "Fuck it. Let's do this shit." (which, let's be honest, is probably what got me into this situation in the first place).
After a tiny stint at the emergency room for a bit of bleeding (everything was fine, something about the placenta freaking out) and having a long conversation with my doctor, I realised something:
My uterus and I were being asked to do a herculean task: to protect the nugget from my immune system.
I'm no scientist, and I was kinda only half listening to my doctor, but my understanding is this:
It's the human immune system's job to protect the body against foreign substances. Therefore, upon embryo implantation, your immune system gets all confused and tries to get rid of the foreign substances i.e. your foetus and the placenta, which both express antigens that are disparate from your own.
It takes a while for your immune system to get its shit together and stop trying to fuck up what everything else in your body is working extremely hard to make. At some point, the immune cells are told to back off and leave the developing foetus be.
So, by my logic, what he was saying was simple - my uterus and I were freakin' superheros. We were two dark knights put on this planet to protect the nugget from the vice and villainy of my immune system.
And by God, we fought like hell.
When my first ultrasound came around (don't worry, I'm not going to show it to you, I'm aware that people only really want to see those things if you're having something awesome, like a Velociraptor), I cried. Like - I cried like a maniac. It was partly because it was emotional to see, but mostly, it was because I felt like I had done it, I had made a life and I am going to get to keep it. My uterus and I fought like hell for the nugget, and it survived.
Since I'd always heard that being pregnant was all magical rainbows and butterfly kisses, I was in no way prepared for the suck fest that was my first trimester.
The first trimester of my pregnancy was about as fun as having taste buds in your asshole.
All I did was barf, cry, sleep, think about sleeping, feel like I'm gonna barf all day, cry and barf simultaneously and cry about being so tired.
I do not like to use the term "morning sickness" because it's all lies. Not only is it not just mornings - it's all the damn time - but it's also certainly not the romantic rite of passage some people make it out to be.
For a while there, anything I had the audacity to try and eat would come right back out to laugh in my face. I was merely a helpless passenger in the psychotic barf-train that had taken over my tiny body.
Pretty much everything made me burst into tears, or at the very least made me weepy.
I would cry during the Family Feud because Lil' Bo Jr. couldn't name three things to do with snow.
I would cry because dog did something really cute.
I would cry because I offered someone some of my gummy bears to be polite and they actually took one.
This one has not gone away.
Every single day, I wake up feeling like I've just run a marathon in moon boots with a backpack full of bowling balls strapped on my back.
At all times, all I want to do is lay the side of my face on the nearest flat surface and call it a day.
The fatigue that has come with the human-baking process may just be the end of me.
And these are just the main things that made my life hell during the first three months. I could keep going…but please, I'm tired!
About a minute after I got back from my honeymoon, I took the most important piss of my life.
There I was, sat on the handicapped toilet of my office, bent over, hand between my legs, pissing all over my fingers. And then there they were, three seasoned pee-sticks in front of me confirming that I am forchizz with nugget.
It was like my vagina reached out from between my legs and slapped me across the face (splat!) - pregnant!
I looked down at my stomach…somewhere in there, ten-thousand leagues under the sea was my very own, and my very first zygote.
And then…."oh nuggets. My parents are going to kill me."
Pregnancy as a stigma has plagued my sex life since my de-flowerment (well, pregnancy and AIDS of course). So when I realised I was up the spout…I freaked out - because that's what you're suppose to do, right?
That's when the worst thing ever dawned on me
I am 29 years old.
I am married.
I am well educated.
I have a mother flippin' job.
I earn a respectable living.
I have a pension and own a set of god damn pearls.
THIS IS NOT A TEENAGE PREGNANCY!
…I am a fucking adult.
...and I am having a baby.
Allie Brosh Where is Allie Brosh??