So, here I type. Knocked up. Pregnant. Etc., etc., etc.
Very few people know and we are in early days, you and I. I should point out that more people would know if your father, bless him, weren't such a paranoid worry-wart. Dude, I would take out a full-page spread in the Times, Telegraph and Guardian and it would have read something to the effect of 'Take that, you MutherF*@%rs!' Because, let's face: Mama likes to swear.
Anyway, 6 weeks today. ETA 23 April, 2010. Your maternal grandparents' anniversary. No pressure there, or anything, Fanglet. No pressure.
So far, I feel. . . freaking amazing. My skin is glowing, my hair is long flowing locks, I've just blown your college fund on redecorating the house (that only took 3 years of nagging, emotional blackmail, and full on extortion. Never let it be said you mama doesn't know how to make the world turn). I do get these weird tugging sessions on the sides of my stomach and the usually slightly doughy area of my lower abdomen is, well, not so doughy. And yes, Fang, Mama knows she should work out more. Don't patronize me in the womb. It doesn't suit you.
At the moment, I am told you are about the size of a very small sugar-snap pea. Or a baby tadpole. Already I talk to you and consult your preferences: spicy? Spicier? SPICIER? REALLY?!
Your Auntie C suggested I keep this as a little something something for you to read when you're older and also so that I can actually remember this experience as I have a tendency to block out entire periods of my past. Like most of Sophmore and Junior year of High School. And College.