The same thing happened with Ezra -- unlike the first time*, I wasn't entirely sure of our conception date so every attempt at dating the pregnancy at the doctor's office resulted in a constant march backwards. I'd show up at an appointment thinking I was six weeks along and leave only five weeks. Then the next week it turned out that the bean-thing on the ultrasound was still only measuring five-and-a-half weeks. The doctor kept tossing out potential dates like, did you guys maybe do it on the 10th? Maybe the 14th?
Finally I just said something like, "Look, I think what's really important here is that my husband didn't go on any business trips this month, so whatever date you wanna go with, I can safely guarantee that he was home, present and likely wanting to have sex." And Jason nodded confidently in agreement.
*January 5, 2005. 20 minutes after Lost ended, give or take 15 minutes for fast-forwarded commercials on the TiVo and probably brushing my teeth because I like to keep the romance alive and stuff.
This time, thanks to the wonderful world of iPhone apps, I'd actually kept a goddamn record, though I didn't really mean to. I was just bored and trying out the different features on a period tracker app I'd purchased. I wanted to see what happened if you added "Intimate" as an event. (It displayed as a little red heart. I was oddly disappointed, though I don't know exactly what else I was expecting. Porno MIDI, maybe.)
I still got tripped up though, because there was the LIKELY date of conception -- the one that fit into the normal range of normal cycles that normal people have -- but then the ultrasound lined up perfectly with the oddball date of conception, a full week later. At a point where the fertility books will start talking about luteal phase disorders and overly mature eggs and blah blah blah anovulatorycakes.
Anyway, wow. This is all FASCINATING to you guys, isn't it? Behold! I am pregnant! The scope of my universe is now completely laser-focused on the state of my womb! I have nothing else of interest to offer! BABY BABY BABY OVARIES VAGINAS.
Okay. Wait. I THINK I started out this entry with some point about walking into a doctor's office seven weeks pregnant and walking out only six weeks. Which doesn't sound like that big of a deal, but still. I felt robbed. Those seven days equaled PROGRESS. And they were MINE. They meant being the mother of a blueberry-sized clump of something instead of a lentil! They meant arm buds and a visible heartbeat! They meant a May due date instead of June! They meant I was beyond the halfway point of the first trimester! Halfway through the dangerous miscarriage zone!
(Haaaalfwaaaay through the. DANGER ZONE. I'll take you. Riiiight into the...)
(OH MY GOD. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.)
(OH. RIGHT. A LOT OF THINGS.)
And those extra days meant that I had officially not puked for longer than I've ever previously managed to not puke. I mentioned this to my doctor, who nodded and said that yeah, that would make sense because it's still so early. "Probably still coming," he said, and as I briefly added the scene to my imaginary montage of All The TImes I Have Wanted To Lunge Over His Desk With An Ortho-Tri-Cyclen Pen As A Weapon.
On the one hand, I would love an easy first trimester. To not throw up constantly and lose weight and constantly fight the urge to stab well-meaning strangers in the neck with pens. I would CERTAINLY love an easier pregnancy than my last one, with the six full months of puking and frequent blacking out from dehydration just because I forgot to drink some water IN THE PAST 15 WHOLE MINUTES OR WHATEVER. It'd be GREAT to stick with my current batch of uncomfortable-but-subtle symptoms (so much gas, you guys).
But on the other hand, I am still very much the same neurotic little pregnant person that I was way back in 2005, when a day without vomiting meant OH NOES SOMETHING IS WRONG. I'm not even going to tell you how often I took pregnancy tests that first time around: I would seriously get it into my head that I wasn't feel pregnant "enough" all of a sudden and for some reason peeing on a stick at 9 weeks pregnant and seeing fresh lines made me feel better. Don't even attempt to argue with my past self about the many many logical and scientific flaws in that plan. I would not have listened, and perhaps would have shanked you with a pen.
Today's most glaring pregnancy symptom (beyond an inability to LET LAST THURSDAY'S EPISODE OF PROJECT RUNWAY GO) was a craving for foods that I typically wouldn't touch with a 10-foot pole (bologna and cheese sandwiches? Gross.), and foods that I know I probably SHOULDN'T eat while pregnant, but oh. The craving. (I ate a bologna and cheese sandwich. It was gross. But also heavenly, for at least the first half.) And then I was overcome with a huge desire to take a nap.
(I started typing this entry instead. That probably explains a lot.)
(Okay. I just stared at a light switch for 10 whole minutes there. I should probably wrap this up.)
In summary: 6w3d. Old gross married people have sex sometimes. Ovaries do the darnedest things. Not puking. Yet. Crazy is totally a symptom, neurosis, pens, naps and bologna. I'm sorry, Internet.