Ouch.

This week was a scary one.

On Wednesday afternoon while I was at work, I had a little spotting incident. Not very much, just a drop in the toilet water, and a pink smear on the paper. But it was enough to get me convinced that this whole thing was over before it had begun.

I had a little cry when I came home, but The Boy cancelled his plans and convinced me I could get it together enough to call the doctor and see what we should do. There was an appointment free in 20 mins, so I made my excuses to the running peeps and we headed straight out into the dark and the cold and spent a good long while sitting in the waiting room watching The Simpsons and listening to an old guy scream while he had some physio upstairs.

Dr Dunn is a funny sort of guy. He asked all the questions and felt around in my tummy and took some blood (giving me a horrendous bruise in the process) and then told me to take the next day off work and have an ultrasound.

I didn't sleep well, and had convinced myself that I was just waiting for a miscarriage or an ectopic pregnancy, and that I was ok with that and we'd try again.

The morning dragged, but I washed towels and my hair and drank the requisite litre of water before I left. I was early and worried I'd have to wee before they saw me, but didn't have to wait at all.

From the books and V's stories and the interwebs, I had thought I'd be seeing a little bean and hearing a heartbeat (or not), but turns out 5 and a half weeks is only far enough to have a tiny dot inside a little sac about the size of a 10 cent piece. All in the right place, thank goodness. Not far enough along to tell whether things were progressing as they should be, but there and growing and so far so good. It's definitely in there.

I drove across to Sydney Road in a daze of something like contentedness. Took many wrong turns and much longer than it should have, but I was completely happy to just drive with a vague destination in mind, and my usual road rage (which I am quite fond of) was completely absent.

Spent far too much money on toys for D & S's baby, and bought sardines when I think I meant to buy anchovies from Mediterranean Wholesalers, and generally cruised along in a state of mind I haven't felt in a while. Desperately needed a day off work, I think.

This morning it was back to the doctors for a follow-up blood test to make sure that my hormone levels were rising. The test from Wednesday night came back with week 6 or 7 levels, which Cohen was very impressed with. (Makes me think the nausea should have set in by now, but apart from the occasional lightly queasy moment, which I think I'm noticing more because I'm conscious of it, I haven't been pukey at all.) I still have pinching little pains almost constantly, and I'm relentlessly TIRED, but so far so good.

The Boy is out tonight so I've spent the evening looking at birth videos on You Tube. They make me sob and recoil in horror at the same time. I really like the idea of the bath (got to get me one of those). But the hypnobirthing seems a little creepy. I don't think I could take the hippy shit seriously enough to have it work. Also, I guess being half-asleep is better than screaming your guts out for however many hours, but I don't know... All those birthing women just seem a little... quiet. It makes me think of a John Wyndam novel or something. Scary silent birthing women.

Fortch and the boys are coming over tomorrow night for duck and pinot (which I can't drink! Sob!) and I'm running 8km in the morning. Probably Sunday will involve SPLEEP!

Don't know when this bump is going to make itself known, but it better bloody happen. I need new jeans. My effing expensive Citizens of Humanity numbers from the internet haven't a freaking hole in the arse! Already!

Roll on Week 7.

Week 5, down.

Reality kicked in after the long weekend, and this week involved a GPs visit and The Fear of booking obstetricians and hospitals and trying to work out what to do re: public/private/midwives/doctors. LOTS of phone calls in meeting rooms where no one could hear me. Lots of appointments locked in and reversible decisions made. Lots of realisations that private health insurance is a crock. Still no real resolutions.

But permission to run, which is lovely. 7km this weekend.

Again with the hunger, and I think the edge of sickness too. Not badly, just ever so slightly queasy in the munring. And dizzy. Also the boobs - in the way in the shower already. So very tired. Slept in until 12 on Sunday, which I don't think I have EVER done. The Boy's comment: 'I think these first weeks of pregnancy are going to be the best days of my life. Sleeping in is my natural state.'

Things still feel pretty abstract, but having a due date (19 Feb) helps a bit. I think I've stopped forgetting I'm pregnant. But I don't really feel all that different. Apart from the boobs (and the missed period, obviously), I think if I wasn't looking out for signs, I'd not think much was going on.

(But it is. The button of cells will soon become a bean.)

Went to Z&V&O's for dinner last night, and told them. They had a scan at what turned out to be 5 weeks because they couldn't tell how far along they were. They saw a grain of rice with a heartbeat like a mouse.

We made cells!

The Boy was in the shower and I was perched on the toilet, wiping piss from my hands and watching the stick... Two lines. Two! One a little fainter than the other, but definitely there. Fuck. Straight out to Banff for breakfast, poached eggs (oops) and mushrooms and babies everywhere.

We spent the rest of the day napping and eating and forgetting and then remembering again, until it was time to drive down to Safety Beach. All the usual suspects were there, and it took a little while to slip the news into conversation, and then it was out and there was hugging and smiles and insulting comments about how enormous I am going to get.

Went to the farm on Monday and moved the goats with dad, then hung out in Eltham until it was time for the very conveniently-organised family dinner. Watched a bad film about people having babies and dreaded telling the parentals. I'm not sure why I felt so icky about it. The idea of it embarrassed me. I don't know. I didn't want to do it. But D and S were there first and we told them straight away, which made it easier. (S had a dream that I was pregnant the day that we found out!). The parents arrived and rubbed S's belly and I said 'There's going to be another one', and oh my goodness, a scene in the restaurant! The mothers shrieked and cried and ran for hugs and everyone laughed and it was fine. Don't know what I was worried about. Later in the nght when we'd all swapped chairs and were waiting for the bill, I was talking to S with my back to Dad, and he put his hand on my shoulder and rubbed my back in a way that made me completely unable to concentrate on what S was saying. He's not so good with the words, my dad, but he's good with the feelings.

The next day, mum sent this message to my phone:
'Dad wondered on the way home last night if it was ok to feel as happy as he did. He said he now feels like he is going to be a grandfather. We are both looking forward to the next stage of our lives. I hope you enjoy pregnancy as much as I did. It is a very special time. Love mum. Xxx'
This kind of makes me want to weep and barf at the same time.

My boobs felt a little bigger this week, and I was HUNGRY in an instant and very demanding way. Didn't take much to satisfy me, but I went from being fine to being famished in the blink of an eye.