Week 15

I'm still puking. Fortunately, the nausea is now mostly confined to mornings and not nearly so debilitating. Yesterday, I wrote a review of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince for my mother-in-law's wonderful book blog. (You can read it at http://abookwithaview.blogspot.com.) I also said "screw it all" and went fishing with my husband on the beach. The evening was gorgeous beyond belief, and I had a blast--despite the aching joints in my backside.

I swear, my spine is gradually coming unglued vertebrae by vertebrae. Thank you, Relaxin.

My areolas are also gradually darkening, turning from light pink to soft brown. They will never go back to being pink again, even after I give birth. And even though I like the change, I also realize that I will forever be physically marked as a mother. The thought is sometimes distressing.

Sometimes, I want my pink nipples back. And my small, size B breasts. (Shh! Don't tell my husband.)

What I really can't stand is all the women who keep telling me that the discomfort of pregnancy is worth the trouble to have a baby. I know that. Otherwise, I wouldn't continue to put up with it. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me sane (other than the Prozac) is imagining the smiling face of my precious little boy or girl.

At my last OB visit, I saw my baby on the ultrasound. At twelve weeks, it appeared almost fully formed with flailing arms and legs. Occasionally, I take the picture out of my purse and look at the tiny gray body, wondering if the legs are really as long as I think they are, or what he (or she) will look like next time. In those moments, I find the determination to push through to the end.

You must understand: I'm not much for nostalgia or romanticism. I'm more of a realist, and I'm happier for it. But despite my rather harsh view the present, I know I will love my baby. I love it even now. I just don't love being pregnant. Is that so wrong?