Now that I'm safely out of my first trimester I look back at it with a sneer. So long, sucker!
There were many moments of happiness;
hearing the kid's heartbeat,
LizTheBabycatcher said "It's officially not the Flu!" I nearly cried with relief, then immediately thought of my MaineCoon cat, Zachary, when he marched into my life like a stubborn beam of sunshine: parasite-riddled, weighing in at a whopping 10 ounces, and purring like a lawnmower. Before you judge my sanity, I must point out that Zach was/is extremely cute, and I got to bottlefeed him for two weeks, waking every three hours during the night to be sure he didn't become dehydrated.
bonding with Mr. Hubby even more deeply than before,
good griefy, we've been through alot together, but never anything like this . . . I'll spare you the rest of the "how do I love Mr. Hubby, let me count the ways"
realizing that I genuinely like my midwife,
LizTheBabycatcher gave me a short bout of hell for consistantly loosing weight. It took some convincing from both Mr. Hubby (who is brave enough to attend pre-natal appointments) and I that indeed I have been eating as much as I can, and no I'm not afraid of gaining weight. I was nasueated at least 70% of the time, not setting the stage for snack cravings . . . I didn't mention it, but the absence of drinkie-poos probably changed my usual caloric input significantly; ya don't get chubby drinking water non-stop.
Also, she's given me no flack for not wanting the "ohmygawdwhatdiseasedoesbabyhave" test that is famous for both false positives and false negatives, the follow-up test involving a giant needle sucking fluid out of my uterus - NO THANK YOU VERY MUCH, I'd be happy to give birth to a frog at this point.
figuring out how to swoop my uterus from left to right by contorting my belly,
"Lump baby to the left, lump baby to the right, lump baby to the left . . ." until Mr. Hubby accuses me of teasing the poor child in utero.
disowning myself of my breasts
They don't look like the boobies I was issued by the boob-fairy, therefore they are not my boobies, therefore I don't forsee any shame in swinging those suckers out to feed a hungry child. "Oh, mine were much better looking, I'm just borrowing these 'till the kid is done with them . . . I imagine there's a booby-claim-hotline or something that will help reunite me with the boobs I had pre-pregnancy"
etc. etc. etc.
What I find easier to remember about the first trimester is feeling worse than the worst hangover I've ever had in my entire life, and said hangover lasting for approximately two months straight with the longest stretch of "I feel normal" lasting approximately 3 hours. Added bonus of extreme isolation, because feeling 15 seconds from either falling asleep or puking does not make for a fun play date (I had to stay home if I wasn't being paid to be someplace). Added bonus of occasional mild panic attacks, weepy fits, angry fits, ohgawdmyboobieshurt, and marveling in horror that anyone ever have a second child - who can chase a toddler when it's damn near impossible to take care of yourself?
So there. Nyeeeeh.
My very unpopular attitude towards early pregnancy.
APPARENTLY, pregnant women aren't allowed to bitch about being pregnant; I received more scorn than sympathy whenever I was honest about not enjoying myself.
To those individuals:
I'd invite you to bite my left tit, but it seems to have been replaced with someone else's leftie . . .