Baby doctor appointment and parenting books

We got to hear the heartbeat at our pareonatal appointment today. Strumming along at 170 beats per minute, which is apparently 10 beats over average for 10 weeks, 2 days and I must be a stage mother in the making because I've informed everyone and their mom of that fact in the five hours since I left the hospital.

I've spent the rest of my day off reading through two pregnancy books I bought over the weekend: What to Expect When You're Expecting (4th edition) and From the Hips: A Comprehensive, Open-Minded, Uncensored, Totally Honest Guide to Pregnancy, Birth, and Becoming a Parent, which obviously markets itself as the hipper counterpoint to classics like the aforementioned, but, in reality, is pretty much the same thing sans quite so much doctor-advice and a lot more mommy-input.

Both have been, I guess, informative--in that they have inundated me with so many conflicting, potentially life-altering, major depression-inducing decisions that I'm starting to feel really sympathetic for Britney Spears. But I still haven't found my Pregnancy-Voice holy grail.

Perhaps, post-baby, I'll write a book of my own. And I think I'll call it Hey You. Yeah, You, Preggo. Take a Breather and Chill the *Ef* Out. And then maybe I'll fill the pages with pictures a la Cute Overload.com and throw in an affirmation like "You're gonna be just fine" and "Go take a nap" and "You're not gonna kill the kid on accident" and "Episiotomies are only a birth control scare tactic" every few pages or so and charge 19.95 a copy.

Cuz if such a book existed, I just might buy it at this point.

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Being 8 weeks pregnant, or what it feels like to have vindictive aliens take over your body.

7 weeks, 5 days.

Initially I thought I'd hit the first-ultrasound jackpot. Look at it resting there, its little feet kicking up a storm, playing soccer with some traveling piece of my insides! But, alas, the head--that's the yok sake. The feet--that's the head.

It already looks so much like us. Aw. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and that's such a nice substitute for the liquor I'm not drinking.

So, this whole being pregnant thing? It kinda sucks. I'm hoping and praying to Demeter or whichever fertility god or goddess actually gives a shit to make this sickness go away. Soon.

I'm so tired that the prospect of working a twelve hour shift overnight tonight has made me cry already today. Twice.

I'm so emotional that I teared up moments ago when I had to pick up my dog's lovely, disgusting brown goop off the floor and then clean his poor, inflamed butt.

And all these years, I thought living with Crohn's Disease just might prepare me for this pregnancy battle one day. I can throw up with the best of them. I can endure stomach pain so bad it would bring a grown man to his knees without batting an eyelash.

Except, with pregnancy, throwing up doesn't make the evil queasiness go away. It. Never. Sleeps.

aw4ksfbpcu

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