From child-free to freaking out

Turn out, you CAN be “half pregnant”

July 30, 2018

Turn out, you CAN be “half pregnant”

My dad has a saying, (which he stole from his dad) that goes (and imagine this being said in a Southern drawl by a disapproving white man): “You can’t be half pregnant.”

I grew up understanding that idiom meant, something either IS or ISN’T, there was no in between. And yet, now I disagree with that statement entirely. You CAN be half pregnant…

I made it to week 7 of pregnancy!

I never got here last time. Now I know that my zygote is now an embryo, and it’s the size of a small raspberry, or a small dice, or a Brookesia Micra Chameleon, which is a little bit bigger than a match head, and WAY cuter than my embryo at the moment.

This little guy is SO MUCH cuter than this terrifying thing inside of me.

Therefor, in a couple of days I will have my first doctors visit, and one of two things will happen:

  1. We hear the heartbeat and know that I have a baby still cooking in there.
  2. We don’t hear a heartbeat and have to wait even longer to see if I need a D&C.

Obviously I’m on team Raspberry Chameleon Heartbeat. I can’t imagine the flood of relief I’ll feel if I get to hear that sound. (Which apparently sounds like a super-rhythmic toddler having a field day with a Whoopie Cushion?)

But at this moment, I HAVE NO IDEA which version of pregnancy I’m in.

I am either pregnant, or just housing a dead embryo (or zygote, depending on when it died). I’m Schrödinger’s pregnant cat. I am currently half pregnant.

“Half” cake topper by Etsy seller SmashCaked

I’m heartened by the fact that my symptoms are still doing their “making me utterly useless” thing. I’m nauseous for most of every day. My tits still feel like they’re going to explode, and if you even think about touching my nipples I’ll yelp. I can get about one thing accomplished a day and then I have to nap forever out of exhaustion. And my default personality is set to Cranky Pants. I’m sure I’m my husband’s least favorite version of me. (That is until I’m taking care of a newborn with a freshly exploded vagina. Then he’ll probably look back on my First Trimester personality as “the good old days.”)

Cross all your appendages for me that we get to hear a heartbeat soon. And then we can move on to all the other panicky thoughts that are starting to creep up into my brain. Like… omg, if I DON’T have a miscarriage, then I’m actually going to have to be FULLY PREGNANT. Like for REAL pregnant. No longer living in this half pregnant state.

Which is both awesome and terrifying.

But ultimately… fuck you, Disapproving Southern Men, you CAN be half pregnant, and it sucks.


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