Hey Baby! (8 weeks)

I had a really brilliant idea today.

Here is a secret: I am covertly and stealthily growing a baby. Right at this moment! But because little TJ* is only -7 months today (happy negative birthday, little grape!) no one knows about it except our immediate families. And my boss. And my two friends at work who are most likely to notice my suspicious absence from yoga. Oh, and my Relief Society President, who is all-seeing and all-knowing and who also caught me retching into a bowl when I should’ve been in Sunday School.

Anyway, no one. So I can’t write about it, right? But wait: I can write about it, and keep it in a file, and then when TJ is -6 months and safely attached to my uterus, and everyone knows, I can put it all up on the blog and back-date the entries. WordPress lets you do that, because they understand about secret foetuses.

I have wanted a baby for eeever so long, but we weren’t allowed to start making one until I wasn’t paying the mortgage. In the long meantime I have had to be content with holding other people’s babies and thinking about possible baby names, and deciding which of our genetic characteristics would go together best to formulate a super-child (‘OK, my hair. But your skin. My ears, your ear canals.’ Etc. Etc.). We have been married almost three years and baby-making wasn’t at all on the agenda until last month, at which point we…promptly made a baby. I cannot find words to express how lucky I know we are to have conceived so quickly. Except nothing’s lucky, of course: we are blessed. And Heavenly Father has obviously chosen another time to teach me about patience, for which, big reliefs.

So my little grape-child has been growing for eight weeks today. Mostly he/she looks like a watery alien, or so the BBC tells me. Check out that head! He’s** been pretty busy the past month growing major organs, and this week’s task has been getting that old spinal cord over and done with. Much busier, in fact, than me, as my body has been treating me to the following indignities:

    • Absolute deathly tiredness. I want to sleep ALL THE TIME. I am, in fact, spending my lunch hour curled up incognito in the back of my car under a blanket (I put the blanket over my head in case people walk by and think I’m weird. This way they’ll just think I’m an oddly shaped, lumpy blanket. With hair). Then I get home and flop down all dramatically on the sofa or the bed, and don’t move again. Ironically, I’m not actually sleeping very well.
    • Initially, pretty awful stomach cramps. My uterus got all uppity with the rest of the stuff in my belly and pushed it out of the way with really sharp elbows. It’s not so bad now.
    • Diarrhoea. Enough said there, although I will say this: like I wasn’t spending enough time in the loo already. Thanks, BOWELS.
    • Sickness. Oh, the sickness. I’m not throwing up, I just want to, all the time. I have discovered that the key is to eat constantly. So I shove another banana chip in my mouth as soon as the previous one’s been chewed. I’m fairly tired of banana chips. I’m even tireder of rice cakes, which will be forever sent to the gastronomic hell reserved for cardboardy, tasteless inedibilities. Still, I’m trying not to perma-eat chocolate hobnobs, so it has to be healthy stuff. I already have enough guilt from the pretty certain suspicion that, for the first week of TJ’s little existence, I ate nothing but Domino’s pizza (it was a good week).

The next entry will be dedicated to describing the many wonderfulnesses of Timothy. I am pretty much the worst person ever to live with at the moment, but he’s without doubt the very best. Till then: grow, little TJ, grow!

* He is TJ because Timothy has long insisted that a) we are having a man-child; and b) the baby will be named TJ Junior, after himself. Both of these things are jokes. I think. But TJ is a useful foetus name in the meantime.
** Writing he/she is cumbersome. I will stick to ‘he’, if you bear in mind that we’re equally likely to have a girl.

3 thoughts on “Hey Baby! (8 weeks)

  1. Pingback: Jam-packed as a suitcase full of jam | make a long story short

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