The First Trimester - Fully Sick.

And I swore I wouldn't be
on of those scan-posters!

When Ben and I decided to start a family, people told me to be patient. It can take a while for your cycle to get back to normal after contraception and these things just take time, anyway. Despite this sound advice, I had a really good feeling and was very disappointed when my first 3 eager pee tests gave me the olll’ single blue line middle finger. I’d reduced my caffeine intake to increase my chances, cut out alcohol and other ‘baddies’ and took to the bedroom from day 7 to 20 for the full scope of opportunity. Of course, this doesn’t compare to the struggle of many women, but when test 3 made it clear we were unsuccessful, I imagined going through this process every month for years and facing let-down after let-down. Annoyed at our first result, I stuffed myself with the rare meat and undercooked eggs I’d foregone and drank my share of booze to reassure everyone I wasn’t pregnant (as we old marrieds are obliged to do). At a friend’s wedding, I ordered a second glass of champagne and my mind screamed, “You can’t have another – It’s poison!’ (“Hmm, that’s weird.. I’ve never seen the poisonous drug alcohol as harmful, before.. Must be losing my taste for it.”) My breasts were a little tender and I was convinced that one had grown, but that was probably a natural symptom of ovulation that I’d long forgotten. Odd that I was so damn tired though, I thought, as we road-tripped to the next booze-laden destination.

I was running a little late getting ready for work, one day, and was even later for my period, so I thought it would be sensible to take one last, quick test. The slovenly pee stick finally woke-up and said, “What? Huh? Yep, I’m up.. Oh, yeah - you’re pregnant. Two blue lines” – which, incidentally, is all I could say to my husband. I called him at work, wheezing, “Two blue lines! Two lines! Ah, it’s normally one and now it’s two, so.. Y’know?!” Not wanting to give anything away to his colleagues, he took it all very professionally: “Mm-hm, uh-huh. Well, everything seems to be in order, madam. I’m delighted to partake in this endeavour and shall see you anon.”
I asked, “How the hell am I gonna get through the day?!” but what I should’ve wondered was how I’d get through the night.. After the worst sleep of my life, I learned that the same pregnancy hormone that knocks you out can also cause insomnia. Ah, the perfect balance. I went back to work on day two of ‘knowing’, as the most zombie-like, demented shell of a human I’ve ever resembled. I don’t know how anyone got any sense out of me (as I occasionally mumbled, “I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.”) and by god I wish I could’ve explained myself! We need to be very switched on in my job and are held accountable for mistakes, which are actually broadcast in an email at the end of the week. I’ll tell ya what, ‘Rosie’ was a pretty popular girl’s name in the old Error Book over the weeks to come!

I know we all hear about pregnancy knocking you out, but I just don’t think it’s made clear enough to women who haven’t experienced this that you will be tired in a way you have never known. That tiny bean of a baby will take you for all you’ve got, interrupting any rest you do get with the immediate, constant need to pee, so do take it easy. It probably wasn’t the best timing, then, that we received our good news only 3 days before moving house to be in a more baby-friendly, country area. I pried my eyes open with toothpicks by day, packed by night, and was ready to die by Moving Day. We were very lucky to have our mothers helping us who were first given the shock of their lives, then forbade me from carrying anything heavy or any serious scrubbing with strong cleaning products. I slipped away on the first day of the move for a doctor’s appointment, eager to hear that I hadn’t drowned my unborn in alcohol. The doctor laughed and said, “When I was pregnant.. No, I won’t tell you stories about drinking,” which I suppose was reassuring. The nurse’s office was another story, altogether.. I went in to smash out those first blood-tests and left over half an hour later, not before hearing all about my attendant’s children, ex-husband and his ‘crazy’ partner. She asked me nothing about myself but did give an expectant and resounding “thank you!” whenever I politely agreed that everybody is evil. Through her bad teeth and rich, ocker accent, she mentioned a few too many times that she was surprised she got this job and didn’t really know what she was doing. When we finally appeared to have finished and my thoughts went to Ben and Mum waiting for me, she continued to yammer-on as she slowly wrote further info on my blood-filled tubes. She marked down the time and was almost surprised to find we’d been there so long, admitting, “I don’t wanna bring in the next one. They’re all Asians.” At my shocked look, she amended, “Oh, nah, I don’t mind ‘em. There are just so many around here.” Ah, right. That’s much better. “Well,” I belatedly told her, “Must be going. I’m moving house, today.” Instead of lying and changing my identity, I also told her where to and she delightedly realised, “We’ll be neighbours!” Oh, goody.. Apparently, I’m on the better sound of town, though. Shocker! (Hey, if she hates Asians, then I can hate on the plebs.)

Among the things that I shouldn’t have done to my baby, in our early days of trying, I wanted to keep up with our friends and went on a ride at Moomba that span upside down and around. I was ill for hours afterwards and even the now oddly strong-smelling grass made me sick. Guess I wasn’t such a pussy, afterall! But no, that’s nothing to be proud of. Sorry, Baby.

Up until the 12-week ‘safe-zone’, we decided to share our joyous bundle of news with direct family, only. We told Dad at a party and his silence only lasted until his first guest arrived. Pointing at the unsuspecting newcomer, he asked, “Can I tell him?”
“Fine..” We could see how this was gonna go! Within days, my uncle and cousins were sending their congratulations and then felt awkward when they learned that we weren’t actually sharing, yet (God, Dad – Couldn’t you even tell them to keep your secret-spilling a secret?). I’m just glad I decided to tell my own sister over the phone instead of in person when I realised she wasn’t attending Dad’s party, that day. Clearly, if I hadn’t told her, he would have!

The growing group in the know all asked how I was feeling and I boasted that I hadn’t been sick.. Which was true until about week 7, when I began to feel nauseous from sun up ‘til sun down and couldn’t explain to one of my curious workmates why my appetite had suddenly become ferocious (“because when I don’t eat biscuits all day, I wanna vomit in your faces!”). Fortunately, there was never any puke to explain, but the nausea went hard for weeks. The sheer sight of steamed vegetables made me ill. Vegetables! “What’s wrong with you, Baby? Don’t you know what’s good for you?! Enough of this meat and carb diet.. Mama’s butt can’t take it.”

As a reward to the onset of Ill-fest, I also had my first scan at week 7. The little tot really did look like a kidney-bean, as they say – not even a tater-tot, yet! There was little to remark on at this preview, but it was pretty cool to see the ‘primitive’ heartbeat. (I will advise the inexperienced pregnant at this point, make a record of your test dates, last period dates and weigh yourself before appointments, because I never seem to have these answers ready!)
I had to start work late on account of this ‘ah, medical appointment..’ and grew nervous about the time when a queue banked-up at the exit gate. Either someone didn’t know how to insert their card or the machine was broken, but no-one cared to investigate in the rain for the first 5 minutes. The woman sitting second in line finally got out to help, first speaking to Driver 1, then inspecting the machine, then staring out into the distance (and, repeat). I called reception and was assured a gatekeeper would assist us. This time for reflection helped me remember that I hadn’t actually grabbed a medical certificate, so I left my car and dashed back inside, hoping that the girls at the desk could help me. The queue in reception was worse than the exit and the moment I got indoors, the cars naturally started to move, again. I could see the gatekeeper looking confusedly at my abandoned car, so I blurted (to no-one in particular), “Sorry, that’s my car!” and ran back outside to assure the car detective I’d only be a moment. Though my car was out of the way, its disorderly position wouldn’t stand and I was forced to park the damned thing again, after which I ran back through the rain and huffed and puffed at the girls at the desk who were ignoring me. In just 10 minutes, I’d gone from feeling like a well-put-together, respectable mama to looking like an absolute psychopath. At least I got my certificate and was on my (sort-of) merry way.

I was very concerned that work would clue-on to my mysterious appointment and that people would notice my wardrobe had suddenly grown quite small. Gone was anything that cinched-in at the waist, for although I didn’t look pregnant yet, I did look like I’d eaten 20 cheeseburgers every morning (which wasn’t far off with my new and improved appetite. I normally love to eat, but it became a chore very quickly). Ben downloaded a pregnancy app on his phone (funny boy) to track our progress and in week 9, he told me, “You will be experiencing extreme mood swings.”
I agreed, “Omigod! – I was just about to tell you what a crazy bitch I was at work, today!” ( Again, sorry, workmates.)

For the first-time pregnant, there is a lot of research to do and decisions to make and I have personally found it overwhelming. When registering online for my hospital of choice, for instance, I was thrown by the first question, “What type of care do you wish to receive?” Um.. The good kind? My options were share care, midwifery group or obstetrician. I barely understood what any of these meant and snapped the laptop shut to deal with the problem, nearly brought to hormonal tears as I was. One benefit of starting our family in our thirties, though, is that a lot of people we know and trust already have children, and they are all more than willing to offer help, advice and unwanted baby goods (score!). I am grateful for all that people have to offer, but you definitely have to go with your gut and listen to your own body. I still do weight training at the gym and lift over 10kg, contrary to medical advice, but I was doing this before pregnancy and it still feels right; I’ve reduced the weights a little and I do get breathless more easily, but this simply means taking a rest. Although I have personally preferred not to drink, I am hearing everywhere that a little alcohol is perfectly fine. I did also get some very good advice from a masseuse, recently. A side effect of not being able to use my stomach muscles is a very sore lower back, so as this perfect stranger pulled down my undies and rubbed my butt, she also suggested that I start looking at day care centres now. “Put your name on a few lists and ask for 5 days, because you never know what will suit you when you return to work. If a spot opens up and you’re not ready, tell them to give it to the next person and put you back at the top. I know a woman who waited until she had the baby before she started looking, but you’ll find you’re too busy. Now, this woman only has two months to go before starting work and she hasn’t found a day care.” Noted!

By 12 weeks, the nausea had certainly eased up and now I can’t wait to get right into my second trimester. Once I’ve got that beautiful belly, I can switch to maternity wear and (hopefully) won’t have to just sneakily undo my pants at work (then forget to do them back up when I leave my desk). Despite the niggles of the first trimester, it has been a very pleasant experience. I am constantly surprised by the widespread joy and excitement this little bun in the oven incites. I’m well aware that I am just the vessel for the little prince or princess to come, however, and am enjoying all the attention before I am finally, and fairly, sidelined. Mama out.