Still plugging away at this pregnancy, with just the right amount of symptoms to be reassuring. Ongoing nausea (though, praise be, I haven’t vomited in two weeks now), fatigue, sore breasts (as in, a stern glare can cause pain, and an enthusiastic hug might well bring about whimpering)… but nothing alarming or worrisome. I have my first prenatal visit on Tuesday – I should be around 11 weeks then, plugging away toward the end of the first trimester – and am really, really, really hoping to hear the heartbeat then. I’ve made a few baby hats and socks for this little one, but I’ve been hesitant to embark on any more involved sorts of projects. I’ve promised myself that I’ll wait for the heartbeat, and once we hear that, I’ll get rolling on the blanket I have in mind. (Which, happily, is already more than half done, but more on that later.)
This time around, I still feel uncharacteristically serene and optimistic. I spend an astonishingly small amount of time dwelling on the what-ifs and worries, and I almost take for granted that everything’s going to be OK. This means, of course, that the first time something goes wrong, I’ll be knocked completely flat, but until then I’m kind of enjoying a walk on the sunny side of the street. Never tried it before, normally my natural cynicism creeps in regardless of alarming symptoms.
Also, this time around, (and maybe because of the attitude I’ve stumbled upon – because I certainly didn’t deliberately decide to just be relaxed about this stuff… or, maybe the attitude is a result of this aspect) I’ve felt somehow more pregnant than I did the first two successful times around. More morning sickness, more soreness and fatigue, showing earlier, lots of the weird peripheral symptoms like better hair and swollen ankles.
But until last night, I hadn’t had cravings. A few mild aversions, though there was no simple, reliable trigger for the nausea those first six weeks; I’m just disinterested in Coke, which normally is a daily beverage choice, and have been oddly and a bit alarmingly disinterested in desserts. Make no mistake, I’m managing to choke down the requisite chocolate and ice cream when the opportunity presents itself, but left to my own devices, I simply don’t think of it. Very strange.
I’ve been more interested in juice and peach-flavored iced tea, though not with an intensity that I would label a craving. There was a tomato/mozzarela/balsamic vinegar incident in early August, but that was dealt with in a single evening. I’ve had some other passing cravings here and there, but last night was the first time that I was willing to harm a stranger in service of attaining that which I craved. The only reason I didn’t knock the poor, unsuspecting, hockey-watching teenager down and stealing his chicken wings at the Boston Garden last night was because I didn’t want those wings, specifically – I wanted the ones Willem makes. Having worked in a bar through college, the man makes a fantastic plate of wings, and I wanted – OK, needed – that particular wing recipe, and stat.
We stopped at the grocery store on the way home, to gather the necessary ingredients. I didn’t ask him to make the wings last night, only because I was too tired to stay awake and eat, but right now – noon time on a Sunday – the chicken is baking and the sauce has already been mixed. With extra sauce and a second package of wings in the freezer, because I suspect one day’s indulgence simply won’t do.