Heather keeps checking in: “Do you feel pregnant?” And I’ve got nothing. Some puzzling cramps from time to time, but not the overwhelming breast pain that I’m told is a hallmark of early pregnancy. I do poke the girls from time to time, just to see, and I’m trying not to do it in public.
What’s ridiculous is that it’s only been about a week. It feels like it’s been forever, and certainly the lifestyle thing seems like it’s taken over my existence. I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t worried about the whole grain content in any baked good. Just ten days’ worth of “maybe” leaves me with little room for reality of any kind, whether it’s getting a much-needed pedicure (What about the fumes?) or going ice-skating (What if I stumble and land directly on my uterus?). What if Grayson is right about the profound danger of herbs and I’m slowly poisoning myself or the stuff that might be inside me.
I’ve been trying to take a gentle approach to encouraging that stuff, not wanting to get too elaborate in case there’s nothing there. Yesterday I laid my hands on my abdomen and closed my eyes, making up a song in my head to the tune of “Merrily We Roll Along”:
Exponentially divide and grow
Divide and grow
Divide and grow
Exponentially multiply
till you’re a full-grown fetus.
I’m tempted to test early, just so I’m not making up songs for nothing.
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