Baby's age: -171 days

When Pete wrote about the brain-bulging awesomeness of New York City, the one life-altering factor that he didn’t mention was the baby that we conceived there (with apologies to Stuart & Krissa’s spare bedroom). This was of course entirely unplanned and accidental, but when we miscarried at 7 weeks, our destiny was fully focused on the fact that we definitely, definitely, wanted another go.

So at the earliest possible opportunity, we conceived again, and for two months now we have been sitting on this brilliant burning fact, unable to tell anyone except where absolutely necessary (to explain the debilitating effects of all-day morning sickness, for example). It’s such an exciting thing, and we can’t tell anyone. These have been the longest weeks ever, waiting to reach the magical 12-week mark, when the risk of miscarriage diminishes significantly, and we can relax and start to enjoy it.

This morning – exactly 12 weeks in – we had our first scan. The main purpose of this was to establish the statistically likelihood of having a baby with Down’s Syndrome; but we got bloody good value for our fee, including a DVD to bore the grandparents-to-be with at christmas. We had a full tour of the baby, showing that it had two legs, two arms, and two halves of a brain. It seemed to be sleeping, so it had to be jiggled around to wake it up, so that the scan-lady could measure the fluid at the back of its neck, which is the indicator of chromosomal abnormality. When woken up, it wriggled and somersaulted for a few seconds, and then went back to sleep; no doubt about its parentage, then.

So, in summary, we have one healthy foetus; 5.3cm long at the time of writing, which puts it at exactly 12 weeks old. Its tiny heart is beating at 158 bpm. Statistical likelihood of DS reduced from 1:312 to 1:1754. Up until this point, we have been so very cautious; we have not given it a comedy nickname, or planned how we will fit the cot into our house. Last time it was so intensely disappointing to get all excited, and then have nothing; so we have counted every day that we woke up still pregnant, and been pleased about it. Now I feel as though we have been given permission to let go of some of the anxiety and enjoy the pregnancy; it’s such a relief, and it is SO exciting.

Written 5th December 2005, but embargoed until after Christmas, by which time we will have told our parents. Originally posted on Feeling Listless.

Baby's age: -174 days

1. Pete’s mum:

Pete said he would tell if it came up in conversation; I was sceptical that such a thing would just come up all by itself.

In a Greek restaurant that she frequents, the owner comes over for a chat, and drops the information that she had a new grandson yesterday. Pete’s mum complains that she hasn’t got any yet, and Pete, giving her a belligerent stare, says do you WANT one?

Then we tell her, and she is pleased. But she does mention that she thought we might conceive one in the mill, which is a little creepy given the total lack of soundproofing.

2. Pete’s sister and grandmother:

I am half way to the fridge for the bottle of champagne when Pete’s mum blurts it out.

3. Karen’s dad and brother:

I offer to drive to the pub where we are having lunch. They are both completely incapable of accepting that I don’t plan to drink any alcohol. They harangue me about it and I tell them to shut them up. Nick names it Bernard.

4. Pete’s dad:

Spending christmas in Tunisia, so we tell him by a text message which reads merry christmas… grandad. Surprisingly, he gets it immediately, and calls to congratulate. Please note that text is his preferred mode of communication, and he would find nothing out of the ordinary about this.

5. Karen’s mum and stepdad:

Finally, we get to announce it properly. Pete pops the champagne cork just as I tell mum she is going to be a granny. She leaps about, hugging people, and then dashes into her bedroom, whence she produces a garish knitted penguin, which she claims to have commissioned from a friend 15 years ago, for her first grandchild.

Baby's age: -180 days

It feels slightly unethical to ask for something like gaviscon on prescription, just so that I don’t have to pay for it; but then I think meh, and ask for it anyway. I’m going to use gallons of the stuff in the next six months; acid indigestion is just one of the many, many discomforts that I am already experiencing. Less sickness, more general achiness. Backache because the ligaments in my lower back and pelvis are “relaxing,” and twinges inside where things are shifting around to make room for the ravenous little monster. Sluggish digestion, bloatiness, itchy legs [mild dry patches of skin have become hideously irritating patches of eczema]. I think that’s it for the time being. Oh, and the insomnia, but you knew about that.

We have taken this week off work, and I’ve spent a good part of it sleeping – during the day, anyway. At night I mostly lie awake trying not to disturb Pete. Now I have got into a rut where the daytime sleeping is probably interfering with the nighttime sleeping, but it’s a difficult one to climb out of. Sometimes I have a little energy, but it soon expires if I try to use it.

At fourteen weeks, it seems a bit soon to be suffering from all these physical changes; but it is there, all the time, sitting where my stomach used to be, feeling like a small brick. I don’t ever seem to forget about it; I just feel pregnant all the time.

And then there is the mental and spiritual agony: oh my god, what are we DOING? This occurs frequently: the realisation that everything is going to change, we will have to stop swearing, start being tidy, and, er, other things that I haven’t thought of yet. Like eating dinner at the table. Oh how things are going to change.

I have been meaning to write about The True History of the Kelly Gang for several days; in fact, Pete has nearly finished reading it now, so that must mean several more days. Not because he doesn’t read as fast as me, because he does; just not as often.

This is a thoroughly good book, once you get over the Molesworthesque vernacular. I thought it would grate, but in fact it was grate. Sorry.

Ostensibly, this is the manuscript scribbled by Ned Kelly in his own defence, explaining how he was driven into his life of crime, and became a Robin Hood for the Australian people. Pete says that it narrowly missed being an Irish Hardship novel, but is slightly Australian Hardship instead; this is true.

This is probably a deserved Booker Prize winner, certainly a match for Vernon God Little; but I can’t be more definite than that, because I didn’t read the other nominees, so I don’t have a fully informed opinion. One year maybe I should try to do this.

I do usually like Peter Carey, often despite an unpromising start; and Oscar and Lucinda is a book I remember with strong feelings. It was one of those books that I liked so much at the time that I lent it to someone and never got it back. Duh. I have gone and done the same thing with The Time Traveller’s Wife this year.

I have also just read a funny little book called Magyar Menu, a birthday present from Lyle. This is a collection of newspaper columns from one of the Hungarian national daily papers, about food. Some of them are nearly recipes, but most are mainly anecdotes written in a flippant style about the sort of food that you simply don’t find in restaurants. Why, some of the tales are even about vegetables.

Baby's age: -183 days

On Christmas Day, Dad, Nick, Pete and I are eating out in a local pub, because Dad’s bachelor pad isn’t equipped for festive catering. We had to choose our meal in advance, and here is the dilemma:

• Vegetable soup with stilton croutons
• Duck liver pate with a cranberry jelly
• Goat cheese and sundried tomato ciabatta
• Prawn cocktail with shavings of salmon in a marie rose sauce
• Drunken mushrooms, doused in brandy.

What’s a pregnant woman to eat?