D and I went out to our local Greek restaurant for dinner last night. Talk about a foodie's worst nightmare: it was hard enough choosing things off the menu taking my gluten-freeness into consideration but now? Now it seems like the choice has shrunk to almost nothing. There's feta in everything, for starters, and when my lamb souvlaki turned up it was cooked to perfection, beautifully pink in the middle. I had to swap it with D's dried up pork.
As my best friend pointed out in one of her amazingly supportive emails this week, you have to really like someone to want to swap your truly delicious plate of food with them. I've potentially got another 8 months till I meet the bean and can work out if I like him or her enough to sacrifice a plate of lovely pink lamb. If I wasn't as psychologically sound as I'm pleased so say I am, I'd start compiling a list immediately of all the shit the bean's going to owe me on his or her arrival. So far: 6 boiled eggs and a lamb kebab.
Thursday, 31 January 2013
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
It's official.
There's really something growing in my belly.
I saw it on the telly at the gynae's: I'm just over 5 weeks pregnant, she said (though technically 3 - I really don't know why they have to complicate things) and if everything goes alright, it's due to come out on October 1, 2013. Neither D nor I were expecting that much information and my mind is completely blown.
I can't believe how super efficient it all is here. I arrived for my appointment and, whilst D sat awkwardly in the waiting room, I did a wee in a cup into which the nurse immediately stuck a test; then they weighed me (awful - especially since she shouted my weight three times at me), removed 4 vials of blood out from my arm and took my blood pressure whilst I stared at pictures of other people's babies on the wall and felt entirely disconnected from absolutely everything. The next thing I knew I was with my lovely gynae (along with D, whom she was terribly pleased to hear wanted to join in) and she did my annual smear before sticking the lightsabre up me and inviting D to come and have a look at my womb on the screen, exactly like it is in the movies. D and I were both like, wtf.
The doctor then felt my boobs (annual breast check: again, I love Germany), asked us a few questions, explained us a few things and then wrote me a prescription for a pair of those stockings pregnant women have to wear on airplanes because of deep vein thrombosis (we've got a holiday coming up in March). Next time I go to see her, in three weeks time, all being well, I'll get my Mutterpass, or mother's passport, where they write down absolutely everything there is to know about me in relation to my pregnancy for me to carry around all the time, Just In Case. Germans. She said if I start bleeding or having pain I can just quietly pop by without making an appointment. I find that incredibly reassuring because I hate talking to the nurses on the phone and given that my doctor said 1 in 6 women will suffer a miscarriage, it doesn't seem wholly unlikely that it might not happen to me.
When we left the doctor, me wide-eyed and sucking on a handful of sweets I grabbed from reception on the way out, I was presented with a magazine and D got a goodie bag full of more magazine, a collection of adverts and a packet of magnesium drinks. We hid it all under a chair in the living room because neither of us can be bothered to read it (read: I can't face it all just yet). D's amazing, though: I just went into the kitchen to start cooking dinner and he'd laid out all the vegetables on the chopping board so with a knife so that it'd be less work for me. Boys are funny. I think he does understand that I'm a bit confused about the whole thing - even though I wouldn't for a second contemplate not going ahead with having a... nope, I can't quite say it. But there's not a chance I wouldn't go through with it. Apart from anything else, he was born to be a dad. We haven't had a proper conversation about it but I know he knows I need a bit of time to get my head around it. Mainly because I keep talking about Alien.
Speaking of getting my head round it, yes, it's a massive fucking shock, but after this appointment it definitely feels more real. Although not that real, as all I have to go on is a woman showing me a picture of a tiny blob. It could be anything, right? D might have put a Smartie up there for all I know. Anyway, my lovely gynae gave us a print out of the blob and everything. I keep staring at it and trying to work out what it means. I mean, really means. For my whole life. Apart from the fact that in all likelihood, if we get through the next 7 weeks, everything's about to really fucking change.
I saw it on the telly at the gynae's: I'm just over 5 weeks pregnant, she said (though technically 3 - I really don't know why they have to complicate things) and if everything goes alright, it's due to come out on October 1, 2013. Neither D nor I were expecting that much information and my mind is completely blown.
I can't believe how super efficient it all is here. I arrived for my appointment and, whilst D sat awkwardly in the waiting room, I did a wee in a cup into which the nurse immediately stuck a test; then they weighed me (awful - especially since she shouted my weight three times at me), removed 4 vials of blood out from my arm and took my blood pressure whilst I stared at pictures of other people's babies on the wall and felt entirely disconnected from absolutely everything. The next thing I knew I was with my lovely gynae (along with D, whom she was terribly pleased to hear wanted to join in) and she did my annual smear before sticking the lightsabre up me and inviting D to come and have a look at my womb on the screen, exactly like it is in the movies. D and I were both like, wtf.
The doctor then felt my boobs (annual breast check: again, I love Germany), asked us a few questions, explained us a few things and then wrote me a prescription for a pair of those stockings pregnant women have to wear on airplanes because of deep vein thrombosis (we've got a holiday coming up in March). Next time I go to see her, in three weeks time, all being well, I'll get my Mutterpass, or mother's passport, where they write down absolutely everything there is to know about me in relation to my pregnancy for me to carry around all the time, Just In Case. Germans. She said if I start bleeding or having pain I can just quietly pop by without making an appointment. I find that incredibly reassuring because I hate talking to the nurses on the phone and given that my doctor said 1 in 6 women will suffer a miscarriage, it doesn't seem wholly unlikely that it might not happen to me.
When we left the doctor, me wide-eyed and sucking on a handful of sweets I grabbed from reception on the way out, I was presented with a magazine and D got a goodie bag full of more magazine, a collection of adverts and a packet of magnesium drinks. We hid it all under a chair in the living room because neither of us can be bothered to read it (read: I can't face it all just yet). D's amazing, though: I just went into the kitchen to start cooking dinner and he'd laid out all the vegetables on the chopping board so with a knife so that it'd be less work for me. Boys are funny. I think he does understand that I'm a bit confused about the whole thing - even though I wouldn't for a second contemplate not going ahead with having a... nope, I can't quite say it. But there's not a chance I wouldn't go through with it. Apart from anything else, he was born to be a dad. We haven't had a proper conversation about it but I know he knows I need a bit of time to get my head around it. Mainly because I keep talking about Alien.
Speaking of getting my head round it, yes, it's a massive fucking shock, but after this appointment it definitely feels more real. Although not that real, as all I have to go on is a woman showing me a picture of a tiny blob. It could be anything, right? D might have put a Smartie up there for all I know. Anyway, my lovely gynae gave us a print out of the blob and everything. I keep staring at it and trying to work out what it means. I mean, really means. For my whole life. Apart from the fact that in all likelihood, if we get through the next 7 weeks, everything's about to really fucking change.
Monday, 28 January 2013
Bloody Hell. I'm pregnant.
Well, holy crap.
Halfway through my double Bloody Mary at Manchester Airport departures yesterday (after a really good burger at Giraffe) I went and did a poo, which is always good news for those of us who can't consume gluten, don't get enough fibre and are constantly battling with constipation. Whilst I was there, thanks to a test that my best friend had secretly bought earlier and handed me when the boys got out of the car to have a pee in a lay-by, I discovered I was pregnant. I returned to the bar, drained my Bloody Mary and told my husband, whose eyes pricked with tears of joy as his hand reached for mine.
I, for someone who has always declared they'd never have children (except for a short period last year, though I think we can safely put that down to the fact I'd just re-entered full time work), remained remarkably calm. I was probably preoccupied with the imminent flight home, not being a very good flier, or perhaps the vodka was working its magic, but despite the feelings of confusion and utter overwhelmedness, I managed to not totally freak out and attempt to leave the plane at 36,000 feet. I just mainly sort of thought, well, that explains all the nausea, sore boobs and distinct lack of period; and was very pleased I'd got a good night's boozing at a wedding followed by a good fry up with some lovely runny eggs out of the way before I found out.
Today, however, was a different matter. Though I think I might already be starting to get my head around it, despite the fact I've hardly had time to think about it (we arrived back late last night and I've been at work all day), I just can't stop bursting into tears. I'm going to put that down to the hormones for now and just focus on the appointment that my husband (D) has got me at the Frauenarzt ("women's doctor") tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. Gotta love Germany. He has insisted on coming with me and on top of that, he's also cleaned the flat, washed the stairs, done both the washing and the washing up and cooked dinner with enough leftovers for me to bring for my lunch tomorrow. I LOVE HIM.
I really, honestly don't know how I feel right now. It's just a bit of a headfuck, you know, going from not really imagining this would ever, ever happen to me to, well, suddenly discovering it is (probably, if it all works, etc). Mostly I am feeling very sick, very tired, have boobs that feel like someone's sticking shards of hot glass into them. That and upset about not being able to eat any more boiled eggs.
Halfway through my double Bloody Mary at Manchester Airport departures yesterday (after a really good burger at Giraffe) I went and did a poo, which is always good news for those of us who can't consume gluten, don't get enough fibre and are constantly battling with constipation. Whilst I was there, thanks to a test that my best friend had secretly bought earlier and handed me when the boys got out of the car to have a pee in a lay-by, I discovered I was pregnant. I returned to the bar, drained my Bloody Mary and told my husband, whose eyes pricked with tears of joy as his hand reached for mine.
I, for someone who has always declared they'd never have children (except for a short period last year, though I think we can safely put that down to the fact I'd just re-entered full time work), remained remarkably calm. I was probably preoccupied with the imminent flight home, not being a very good flier, or perhaps the vodka was working its magic, but despite the feelings of confusion and utter overwhelmedness, I managed to not totally freak out and attempt to leave the plane at 36,000 feet. I just mainly sort of thought, well, that explains all the nausea, sore boobs and distinct lack of period; and was very pleased I'd got a good night's boozing at a wedding followed by a good fry up with some lovely runny eggs out of the way before I found out.
Today, however, was a different matter. Though I think I might already be starting to get my head around it, despite the fact I've hardly had time to think about it (we arrived back late last night and I've been at work all day), I just can't stop bursting into tears. I'm going to put that down to the hormones for now and just focus on the appointment that my husband (D) has got me at the Frauenarzt ("women's doctor") tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. Gotta love Germany. He has insisted on coming with me and on top of that, he's also cleaned the flat, washed the stairs, done both the washing and the washing up and cooked dinner with enough leftovers for me to bring for my lunch tomorrow. I LOVE HIM.
I really, honestly don't know how I feel right now. It's just a bit of a headfuck, you know, going from not really imagining this would ever, ever happen to me to, well, suddenly discovering it is (probably, if it all works, etc). Mostly I am feeling very sick, very tired, have boobs that feel like someone's sticking shards of hot glass into them. That and upset about not being able to eat any more boiled eggs.
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