Pink or Blue, either will do,
But it's Round Two and we're hoping for blue!
Baby McIntyre Number Two, we're expecting you!
Doctors recommend waiting at least three normal...uh...woman cycles before trying to conceive after a miscarriage. After our adventures in conceiving this summer, we weren't really left with any choice but to wait three months, and then some. By October, we were finally mentally and physically prepared to get in line at conception station. Also by this time, we were deep in the throes of house-hunting and, while our efforts weren't all that promising, I later learned we conceived the same weekend we found the house that would eventually become ours. God works in mysterious ways; life can only be lived forwards but understood backwards; yada, yada, yada.
Given that NASA could use my cycle to set their clocks, I was instantly piqued when it didn't show. And didn't...and didn't...and didn't. Before it was due, I hadn't even entertained the idea I might be pregnant. So much so that I had a bit too much fun at book club one night and had to be driven home. That's right; I had to be driven home. From book club. While I expected to have a hangover the next day, the fact that I never felt recovered throughout the rest of the day planted the pregnancy seed. I waited almost a full week before venturing down the extremely not-hidden Family Planning aisle of Wal-Mart and was honestly surprised at the results. And - if we're being honest - completely scared. Was I as emotionally and physically prepared to go through the next three months again? No matter which way it turned out? And since we found out in mid-November, a little disappointed no Christmas Coffee for me.
Regardless, there we were: strapped into the pregnancy roller coaster as it slowly clipped up the hill, ready to let us loose in either direction.
Taking things the only way we can, day-by-day, Bun 2.0 and I entered our second trimester today. According to the all-knowing internet, I'm due in July but my doctor won't officially determine my due-date until we have an ultrasound. For obvious reasons, we only disclosed what we knew to our parents and
anyone else who happened to be in a situation where I had to refuse
alcohol. My criteria was the heartbeat, in that we must hear
it, and yesterday was the magical day. I went to the doctor and asked the nurse to give my tummy a swipe with
the Doppler. She gooped me up, put the wand smack in the middle of my
abdomen and it was instantly there. The loud, rapid, THUM THUM THUM
filled the room like it was in Dolby Digital and I instantly cried and
asked her various different versions of, "Are you sure that's not my own?" She was
adamant and very pleased, smiling while saying it was nice and strong.
Of course since announcing the news entails the internet, there was bound to
be at least one stupid, "I thought you might be knocked up but didn't
want to say anything in case you just had too much to eat during the
holidays," comment. Thankfully, the delete button is always close by.
And *ahem* I lost weight in the first three months.
The first few months were just as you'd expect or have experienced yourself: sucked. And while, yes, I know being sick is a "good sign," I was ready to punch the 10th person who said that to me. I have to admit, though, that every time I crouch in front of the toilet is a bit of a relief. Thankfully, I've graduated to just saying my prayers to the porcelain gods first thing in the morning. Then I'm non-stop hungry throughout the rest of the day, very congested, and VERY tired. My energy is slowly coming back, as evidenced by my house that is very slowly getting cleaned and organized.
We're still taking things one day at a time but happy to have some positive in the bank.