So it’s Week Seven, Day 1, and I am apparently in the throes of creating lots and lots of internal organs, and more limbs. And I am schleepy, and tired, and now understand what it must feel like to sport a ladylike beer gut. And honey, there ain’t nothin’ sexy about a beer gut.

Yesterday, I ate my weight in carbohydrates (or just about), and then trotted off to bed at 8.30pm and slept until quarter to eight this morning.  Hugely piggy. Eating lots meant I didn’t get a visit from Dame Nausea yesterday, which also ironically brought on the paranoia. I’ve heard about women who get nausea daily, only for it to screech to a halt as soon as their body starts to miscarry the baby. So naturally, Not Feeling Pukey felt emotionally worse than Always Feeling Pukey, and I snuck a peek at some online articles about miscarriages today until about 4.oopm, when I started to feel rather green again.

And then I felt great.

Blurted out the fact that I’m Preggers to the Big Kahuna yesterday, partly because we were starting to talk about project deliverables for the next calendar year – but mostly because it “felt right” and I was feeling like I wanted to share. He was rather surprised, but seemed pleased. Then I over-compensated, and practically apologised for not planning things better so that bub didn’t come a month AFTER we went live with my year-long project. What is it with women and apologising for nothing! Anyhoo… Told him it was early days, and then we left it as that. So three people at work know now – and I’ve told each of them for varying reasons.

Funnily, I haven’t felt like telling any close friends yet. I’m not quite sure why. I think I want to surprise them all, for kicks. And perhaps it feels easier not telling people closer to me, just in case Blob decides he or she’s had it, and is going splitsville come Week 8. I think I’d find it easier to tell people I work with – especially men – that it didn’t work out, but it’d be really hard to avoid the emotional mumble-jumble if it came to the sisterhood.

Tony wonders why I keep thinking about miscarriages. I’m not sure I can explain it. I guess I’ve always gotten carried away by hope in the past, and sometimes gotten sorely disappointed. And in this instance, my survival instinct is telling me to hope for the best, but absolutely prepare for the worst. Sometimes, I wonder if such an attitude smacks of smug self-reliance and the inability to trust that God can comfort and work all things out for the best.

Former colleague emailed a bunch of us today to announce the impending arrival of her Number Two. And there was much squealing and rejoicing in the office. “I knew these announcements come in threes!” said one colleague sagely. “And true enough – it has!” And I’m just standing there grinning, because I’m about to blow her theory out the water. But yeah – this is the fourth pregnancy I’ve learnt about, and they’re all due in May. All I can say is… there must have been one really cold fortnight in August this year that was super-conducive for cuddling.