Forget all the stuff I said about it being sensible to keep quiet about early pregnancy until worst of the chance of miscarriage has passed. I have a new theory. I suspect the main reason that women in their first trimester are advised not to talk about being pregnant is that no one wants to hear about the most pressing thing that is on their mind all the time – what the fucking fuck has suddenly gone wrong with every single aspect of their body.
From my exhausted brain to my sluggish digestive system, everything appears to stopped working properly. The fact that few people know I am pregnant has so far spared the world from my unending stream of biological complaints. If I’d been feeling more forthcoming, my answers to a polite “how are you?” could have been:
- Fuck off. I’m sleepy.
- Bulgy with cranky overtones.
- None of my pants fit and your perfume smells like catsick and I want to throw up on your shoes.
- Nauseous but starving.
- Really very nauseous. Pass the two minute noodles.
- Yeah, and a second packet.
- Fat. Knackered.
- Ugh. Nauseous and can’t poop. Going to nap now.
- Awake. Tired. Still can’t poop.
- Worried that I haven’t pooped in so long I may explode in public like the world’s worst pinata.
- Pooping again. You have no idea how good it is. Still fat though.
Eating. Sleeping and waking rested. Crapping with ease. Putting on my pants and being able to close the zipper enough to satisfy my modesty and the restrictions of NSW’s indecent exposure laws. All things I didn’t realise I was taking for granted until that second line appeared on the pregnancy test pee stick.
So, you’ll have to forgive me – between the fatigue and the nausea – if I am a little vague at the moment. If I don’t really seem to be paying attention, and answering your questions on how I am with a vague “mmm” and change of the topic as opposed to a full answer.
Because, trust me, really? You don’t want to know.