I had a pregnancy first this morning: I vomited! Is it weird that I’m strangely proud of this? I feel like I’ve joined an honourable tradition of women before me who have suffered the Morning Sickness and lived to tell – and laugh – about it. I am finding this wonderful womanly pride in my puking.
It probably doesn’t hurt that I don’t really mind throwing up. I mean, I don’t exactly enjoy it, but it’s closer to neutral on my awful-awesome continuum. I also happen to be an experienced thrower upper, probably thanks to having participated much too enthusiastically in alcohol consumption in my younger days (for the record, I no longer participate, enthusiastically or otherwise).
Pregnancy symtoms are also comforting because they confirm that I still have a developing embryo on board. A miscarriage can take several weeks to complete, so the embryo can die well before bleeding and cramping start. I’ve learned that one of the paradoxes of pregnancy is that physical discomfort brings mental calm, while being physically asymptomatic causes mental unease for fear of lost pregnancy. It’s just one of the many ways that nature shows her sense of humour.
I am at six weeks and six days today. My uterus resident is the size of a bean, with a beating heart, eyelids, a nose, and elbows. Believe it.