I still feel guilty that I didn’t really have any morning sickness.
I didn’t have a magical moment when the + showed up on the test after which I was consumed with love for my unborn baby. It was something a little more like stunned disbelief.
I still feel mostly gobsmacked by the whole thing.
I spend a lot of time thinking about ice cream and seasonal Reese’s peanut butter cups. (Seasonal ones have a much better peanut butter to chocolate ratio.)
I’m inordinately terrified that my feet will swell and never go back to their original size. Size ten is PLENTY large enough, baby. (Think of all the converse!!!)
I don’t seem to be having stereotypical cravings, but obsessions with certain foodstuffs that burn hot and fast, and after they’re over, I want NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with said foodstuff. (The now-unappealing list includes pumpkin squash ravioli frozen dinners and strawberry Newtons, most notably).
In the last week, the baby’s kicks have gone from gentle little rumbles to shockingly strong actual KICKS that often make me gasp out loud. But the new strength means Dan felt one from the outside for the first time, and that was kinda amazing.
I’m still caught off guard by people being extra kind and taking care of me (when my sister- and brother-in-law each grabbed an elbow walking through an icy parking lot; when a friend walked me back from lunch to make sure I got past all the ice safely). Not because it’s weird that they’d be nice, but more that I forget, a little, that I need to be 50x more careful.
I am surprised that I haven’t had too many overly emotional sobfests (which is not to say that I haven’t had any). I have been SUPER irritable, though.