Knocked Up and Over

So. I take it y'all read the news?

Yeah. When I wrote Monday's post, I was already pregnant. When I preemptively snapped at anyone who DARED to make the puking = pregnant connection last week, I was already pregnant. I just didn't KNOW that I was already pregnant. Really! I would have told you, Internet. Honest. You know there's no secrets between us, baby. Shh. Don't be like that.

I really did take a test last week -- the very last test stick in the house, which somehow managed to survive last month's two-week rampage of peesticking and disappointment. I tested after our fall that nearly caused my nine-months-pregnant friend to spontaneously deliver on our sidewalk out of sheer terror, and after a lunch out with her where every smell in the place caused my stomach to flip and flop and bleh. It was negative, and possibly gave me the finger, because it was one of those fancy digital ones. NOT PREGNANT, it said. ALSO FUCK YOU! I enjoy paying extra for the attitude.

Then I went and threw up. And then threw up again. Then I felt better. Then I threw up again on Friday morning. Heartburn kept me up all night. I ran out of Tums.

"Do you think...maybe I should take another test?" I asked Jason over the weekend. He rolled his eyes.

"Noooo, come on," he said.

See, here's the thing: that blasted fertility monitor told me I didn't even ovulate this month. And I believed it. I've been falling into an every-other-month pattern for awhile now -- blocked tube? bum ovary? Who knows. Call the DOCTOR, ALREADY. We've been trying in earnest since Noah's first birthday, but this month we -- oh my God, the concept -- only had sex when we felt like it. I mean, come on. No chance. I convince myself I'm pregnant every damn month, and even I've had enough of being such an asshole.

I wrote Monday's post and hit the publish button, then bundled Noah up and went out in search of heartburn medication, lest I die of it right there. I picked up some Zantac and turned around to face the family planning section. My boobs...well, they did feel a little sore that day. I grabbed a three-pack of CVS-brand tests and called myself an asshole again.

I continued to berate myself the entire drive home, reminding myself of all the other reasons for the symptoms I was experiencing. Remnants of the stomach flu. Old age. PMS. Late stage alcoholism, I don't know.

We got home and I put Noah to bed and entered the bathroom.

The second line showed up within seconds. I started laughing out loud at the test. I ran around my bedroom yelling HA! HA! HA! over and over. For an old married woman who has been having carefully timed and orchestrated sex for over two years now, I just went and got myself knocked up.

And suddenly...I was pregnant. And I knew it, and I knew it without those other two tests and without a beta and I snapped a picture of the test and emailed it to Jason, with "Hey! Guess what?" as the subject line.

He emailed back:

what am I looking at here? is that second band actually filled in? That means it's positive right? Holy crap!

And then again, a few minutes later:

on my way home.

The other two tests confirmed what my nausea, heartburn, bloated round belly and painful tenderized boobs had been trying to tell me.

October 14th is my best guess at a due date since I don't know when I ovulated exactly. The negative test last week (on cycle day 28) suggests a longer cycle, maybe, so...mid-October-ish, right after Noah turns three. I'm a few days shy of six weeks along right now. Ish.

Since I've been bumped out of the Infertile File at my doctor's office, my first prenatal appointment isn't until MARCH, when I will be around nine or 10 weeks along. This would have wigged me the fuck out last time, but I'm strangely calm about it.

The nausea and heartburn have been incredibly manageable (to almost nonexistent) since Monday, when I (obviously) cut out coffee and red wine. Those turned out to be the biggest culprits. (Biology! It's like it knows shit, and stuff.) My boobs are killing me. Goddamn killing me for real and serious. Spicy food is not my friend. Indian food (which sustained both me and Noah for nine solid months) hurts me. Deep. Salt makes my stomach pooch out to five-months-along territory, although I will suffer the bloat in the Pursuit of Pickles. I want chocolate all the damn time and OH YEAH, maybe that's why I decided to randomly make an entire tray of brownies last weekend, taste them, declare them terrible and then proceed to eat every last one.

We obviously aren't talking to Noah about anything yet, other than asking him what he'd think of a baby brother or sister. You know, just as a general concept. He nodded enthusiastically, but later conversations suggest that he actually think he's getting a Wonderpet.

And then there are days where I think this is all a mistake. The tests were faulty and it's all in my head. Or the lack of nausea some days is an ominous sign (even though I didn't get sick until much farther along with Noah). I started having some light cramping yesterday afternoon and evening, but I'm fairly sure it was normal uterine-expanding/embryo-settling-in-and-trashing-the-joint cramping, exacerbated by some dehydration and possibly my c-section scar. Taking care of myself and the pregnancy is...uh...challenging, to say the least, since Noah does not care that macaroni and cheese is now the devil's handiwork and Mama needs to drink eight glasses of water a day and pee 127,834,209 fricking fucking times a day.

Aaaaaand...that's where we are. Sorry for the all-over-the-place kitchen-sinkness of this entry. I've had almost a week to collect my thoughts and my thoughts are still running very ZOMG PREGNATE SJDLIP HHJWEY GIMME OLIVES THX.

Oh, and one last thing, which I hope will be pretty cool -- ages and ages ago Isabel and I were talking about pregnancy and pregnancy blogging and I mentioned that second pregnancies tend to get the short end of the stick, journaling-wise, and how I hoped I'd be able to keep as detailed a record of my hypothetical second pregnancy as I did with my first. Her solution was to slap me with some deadlines and pay me to write one of those week-by-week pregnancy guides for the AlphaMom website. (Ha ha, little embryo! Mama done SOLD YOU OUT.)

We're scrambling to get everything set up right now since I finally was able to give it the official go sign on Tuesday, but just in case you find I don't yak on nearly enough about pregnancy over here (or if you are someone who commented yesterday with a remarkably similar due date), I'll be publishing weekly installments of everything pregnancy over there. But instead of reading about how oh, this week your baby is just the most preshusest little chickpea ever and now let's talk about toxoplasmosis and ectopic pregnancy and scare the ever-loving shit out of you, it will be...well, probably a lot less informative and possibly compare your embryo to a Viagra tablet.

Holy mother of God, people. I just might get myself another little baby out of this.