Okay, technically I guess I’m a fetus blogger. Wait. At this point it’s still an embryo, so I’m an embryo blogger. Until week 13? Or something? Ask the Christian Coalition, they know when life begins. Oh shit. I went there. People are going to find me and hang me.
So before I start this thing (that last thing wasn’t a start, it was an aside), let me just say that I’m tired. Like, T I R E D. On top of rarely sleeping because I’ve been a terrible insomniac for most of my adult life (and actually most of my childhood if my mother is to be believed) I can now add pregnancy as a reason for crushing exhaustion, as my body is nothing but a vessel now. All of my resources are being used for constructing a suitable home for the young ‘un. Every morsel of food that I eat (and by the way, I’m frickin’ starving all the effing time. really. I just ate and already I’m hungry), every ounce of energy that I might create through processing the morsels goes directly to building that placenta. Not to mention the baby’s brain, eyes, feet, fingernails, digestive tract etc. Add to that the fact that Jason left this morning for his highway adventure so I had to get up at 4 something to get him to the airport on time. TIRED. All of that so that you’ll realize that if this post sounds like the pyschotic ramblings of a nut job, well then it’ll be no different than usual so what am I worrying for?
I’m still pregnant. While you slap your forehead and say duh! I’ll explain why that’s a miracle. Because I, Anjeanette, am a freak and I panic about everything. Suddenly I’m afraid that I’m not really a pregnant, that the whole missing-a-period-and-having-positive-pregnancy-tests is a cruel hoax, a fluke if you will. Or I’m afraid that I’ll miscarry. Or that it’s ectopic. Or that SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS GOING TO HAPPEN ANY DAMN MINUTE. Yeah, I know, your attitude is that if I think about and worry about these things that I’ll bring them on myself, right? Like worrying about things makes them come true. Think positively blah blah. Well guess what? I have found that the opposite holds true for me. When I worry and stew and freak the fuck out about things, they almost never come true. So don’t give me any lip. Yesterday when I called to make my first appointment with the midwives (yes midwives – again, don’t give me any lip) the phone-answering gentleman (do they call them receptionists anymore? even when they’re male? or is that an offensive term like stewardess? is he a phone attendant?) queried “okay, so you’ve had at least two positive home pregnancy tests, correct?” and I was like “yes I have”, but I didn’t tell him about the one negative one, because the negative one might negate one of the positive ones and then I’m really not pregnant, because a negative test would somehow give me a bad grade on my pregnancy, because I was afraid he’d tell me I wasn’t REALLY pregnant unless they were all positive, because I’m a giant, freaky boob of a first time mom. The question only added to the mounting paranoia. So I think I might take another test this weekend. Just to make sure. After all, I have that spare one lying around. And technically it was free. Right? I gotta go take a nap, otherwise I’ll never make it through Idol.