Better late then never I guess. I’m here, yet have nothing remotely fantastic to say; though I believe it’s been that way since I started with this wee blog. So why change now.

I was on the fence for weeks about doing the integrated testing for Down Syndrome for this pregnancy. I didn’t know if I wanted to because the results really didn’t make a difference to me. I did it when I was pregnant with Carter because I didn’t know any better, I thought it was a necessity. This time around, I had planned to make a more educated decision, but in the end it just came down to getting to have an ultrasound earlier then 20 weeks, so I went with it.

Yesterday I went for the ultrasound and blood test and got to see everything. I don’t think it matters how many children you have, but when you see them for the first time on that screen, it’s like it was the first time all over again.

Though I have been complaining incessantly about the fact that I hate barf and peeing my pants and feeling sick, it’s totally worth it all to see that squirmy little being moving across the monitor. Right now, I am the most excited I’ve been for this pregnancy.

My dear best friend is almost exactly 4 weeks ahead of me in her first pregnancy and her sister is almost 3 months a head of her. The stories my BF has been telling me about her sister have had me in fits of laughter over the past week. Which is not good when any kind of laughing or coughing brings on fits of gagging.

A little background on the sister. To put it entirely blunt, she’s a selfish person who really has no time for anyone but herself. She MUST be the centre of attention in all circumstances otherwise she will create drama until she becomes that centre of attention.

That sister has now reached the point of her pregnancy where her feet are no longer visible, and she can’t see the bottom of the zipper on her coat. These milestones have rocked her to her very core. She called my BF crying inconsolably because she could no longer see her feet. Granted this can be a traumatic start to the whole holyshitI’mhavingababyandmybodywillneverbethesame phase of pregnancy, but for this one? I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off, then spew out the more fantastic details of pregnancy.

I was all:

Wait until she can’t put on her underwear without help, or can’t even put on her own shoes anymore…

Or can’t sit down without first bracing your entire body and still feeling like you’re going to fall over…

Or wait until she has the baby and can’t sit down for 6 weeks…

Or until she doesn’t get to sleep in for the next 10 years…

Or how you’re afraid to shit for 5 days after having the baby and it burns like firewater just to take a pee…

Or your boobs are so engorged they feel like they are going to burst out of your skin at any moment…

Or how about when your cooter is cut open and a stitch pops and can barely walk without pain…

Or how about the first time you have sex again.

Needless to say, I had forgotten that my friend has yet to experience these wonderful aspects of pregnancy.

Even though we were on messenger, I’m sure she fainted for a short while when she stopped typing.. and I bet she even changed a few shades of white.

Even with trying to comfort her with the fact that I’ve been there and I’m doing it again, I think I may have scarred her for life.

Yesterday the hormones raged and I played right into their weepy guilt ridden ways with my apologies for being able to conceive while just thinking about it, and the fact that I have many friends who aren’t so lucky. Moosher called me on it today wrote another post about how fabulous *cough, cough* her pregnancy was, and mentioned Megan’s fabulous post about Hierarchy of Suffering, and rather then me hacking up Megan’s excellent post, you should go read it yourself because it’s really fantastic.

And guess what, after Casey tells me how bad I shouldn’t feel and I should share my barf stories: I feel bad about apologizing for something that is out of my control. Yes, the complaining is out of my control, it’s part of my genetic make up. Blame my parents.

Blame my parents and the out of control HORMONES.

See, I loath throw up - mine or anyone else’s. As I’ve mentioned time and time again (Forgive me, I’m not linking) about how I’d rather suffer the wrath of explosive diarrhea then vomit. Well, I haven’t been so lucky. In the past two months, I think I’ve been barfing like a supermodel what feels like non-stop and it’s slowly killing me. I cry each and every time and also pee my pants. Not to mention the fact that I am forced to put on this facade of feeling fantastic while I’m at work because my pregnancy is yet to be announced to co-workers. That’s a feat in itself.

So yes, I can and probably still will write about how horrible I feel and how different this pregnancy is then it was with Carter and how much I HATE throw up.

It doesn’t change the fact that I wholeheartedly feel for those who have a more difficult time with conceiving.

Having children was a given for me; I’ve always been comfortable around them, infants in particular. I remember being six years old and going to a before and after school program at the local daycare, I would beg and plead with the staff to “help out” in the infant room. I have always had a soft spot for babies. Babies that were never my own.

Carter was a great infant: better then I gave him credit for. Every newborn has crying fits, even some in the middle of the night, trouble latching and all around new baby behaviour. Compounded by the fact I had raging hormones, painfully engorged boobs and lady bits that felt like they had been through the shredder, I just wasn’t seeing clearly. I didn’t see how great he actually was, but instead focused on the worst times.

I remember one dark and lonely night, sitting in the living room, bawling while cradling an inconsolable infant and reciting to myself over and over Do. Not. Shake. The. Baby. Through tears, I begged and pleaded with him to tell me what he wanted: to tell me what to do.

Those were the darkest moments parenting has brought to me thus far. Hopefully I never see worse days then those.

Now that I look back at how inconsolable I was, I cringe at the thoughts and feel extreme guilt. Guilt that I could have done so much better during Carter’s first days. He deserved better then a screaming, crying and down right miserable mother who wanted nothing more then personal space and sleep. I was so selfish. I see selfish, even though I was too adjusting to life as a parent. To life where I didn’t come first anymore. It wasn’t about me anymore and wouldn’t be for years to come.

Ungrateful? Maybe. Selfish? Yes, I believe so since I knew what sacrifices I was to make while bringing a child into the world, yet he didn’t.

Being someone that hasn’t had trouble conceiving (to date) my thoughts lately have been with those who have and reading a post that My Moosh (yes, she’s MINE all MINE!) wrote got me thinking even more.

As much as I want this pregnancy, I perceive myself as appearing FAR less then grateful. I have complained and whined and felt sorry for myself repeatedly when there are more then a few people would would do anything to have this morning sickness. They would gratefully hug The Porcelain God that Thank Him for this opportunity all the while I scoff at Him and curse Him to the depth of Hell.

I know this is my blog and I can feel what I want and shouldn’t have to apologize… blah…blah…blah….

No one put my up to this, no one guilted (yes, not a word, but is today) me into this. This is how I feel and and I have a right to share that I feel horrible and guilty even thinking about the fact that my harsh and blunt words could and may have been hurtful to someone that has had to try harder.

So for that I am truly sorry.

** Please don’t think that this is Casey’s doing. I’ve read other posts, but hers was the latest one that I’ve read and it really touched me because I consider her a great friend. Besides, the mere mention of morning sickness on this blog and traffic seems to disappear in a blink of an eye. **