I want to explain the changes she/we made to my medication regimen in detail, because psych meds are just so often misunderstood. I’m going to go over what each is of my medication is for and why I need two.

First, I take an SNRI, or Serotonin and Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitor called Effexor. Norepinephrine is a chemical that seems to help with anxiety, so having more of it in my brain is, apparently, a helpful thing. Serotonin, as you have probably heard, is a chemical that helps make us happy. If there is too little in your brain, you are more likely to become depressed. I started on Zoloft, the most commonly prescribed SNRI, but switched a few years ago to Effexor. (I am a big advocate for No Drugs Without Therapy, because eventually, every drug will stop working. Therapy teaches you coping skills that don’t stop working.) I was supposed to eventually only take an SNRI, but that didn’t work out. Anyway, here are the thoughts on Effexor, me and the second trimester of this pregnancy:

I am feeling more anxious all of the time, not at any one particular time, so that tells me that my “baseline” jumped up. Effexor (especially in the extended release capsules I take) is intended to do its work ’round the clock. To help me feel a little calmer all of the time, my doctor suggested increasing my dose by the smallest increment. She also suggested that I take 150 mg when I wake up and the other 75 mg in the afternoon, to help for all of the day.

Second, I take Klonopin, aka clonazepam, the benzodiazepine that has been such an important and yet difficult part of my treatment. We’re working with a fairly high dose already–3 mg a day (1 mg morning, afternoon and evening) is already half-way to the maximum recommended dose of 6 mg total per day. That’s my ceiling. At one point in my life, I needed that. If we end up going there by the end of this pregnancy, that’s fine with me. But my psychiatrist wants to move slowly, so we don’t hit that ceiling too quickly.

The new regimen (and it feels good so far!) is that I take a 1 mg in the morning, 1/2 mg mid-morning, 1 mg in the afternoon, 1/2 mg early evening, 1 mg before bed. If I didn’t already take pills 80 times a day because of all the vitamins for the baby and me that have to be taken with food or not taken together or taken with a meal that has saturated fat in it if possible (Vitamin D–that stuff does not want to be absorbed by me… what’s your deal, D?)… but I digress. The point is, I remember to take the half-pills, and so far, so good. Sometimes, I worry that I love Klonopin too much, but I have never been tempted to take more than the prescribed dose, so I’m not actually worried about addiction.

And I’m taking it one day at time, so that’s all for now, folks. Ask questions, if you like! I’ll be more generous than Lucy from The Peanuts and not charge you a nickel as I open up my psychiatry booth. ;)

My anxiety is back. I stay up late worrying about things like whether I need to send a gift to the anniversary party we’re not going to or if a card will suffice. I am convinced, daily, that when I show up to work, I will be promptly fired, for no particular reason. Worst of all, I am not hungry the way I was in the first trimester of this pregnancy. I have to remind myself to eat, and it is hard to work up the energy to eat well enough to take good care of Bug. (I have eaten three pastries today, and it is barely 5 pm.)

I will see my psychiatrist tonight, and we will increase the dosage of one medication or the other. There are two factors working against me, here. First, the hormones that raged during my first 12-13 weeks seem to have helped my anxiety. Those slow down during trimester two. The second is that, in pregnancy, the amount of blood in my body will end up increasing by 50%. That dilutes the medication, according to my psychiatrist.

Then, there’s the sleep. I was so exhausted during those first months, that I passed out each night before 10 pm and slept like the dead. Now, worries can keep me awake.

I have read that the second trimester is the “honeymoon period” – no more morning sickness, more energy, better hair, better skin, better nails, whatever. Yeah, my hair looks pretty fabulous lately. But I never had morning sickness, and my job includes taking naps with the baby I take care of. For whatever reason, the hormones I got with my pregnancy did me a world of good. Isn’t there some way to inject those, now that they are less intense? Oh, well. It would probably be bad for the baby.

I had a lovely vacation. Now, back to reality. So much for that honeymoon.

The first six years of my life were the only truly happy years of my childhood, and I credit my parents’ instinctual use of the basic tenants of Attachment Parenting with their early success. The only upsetting memory I have from those years (and I remember my third birthday party, of which I do not have a single photograph) is my grief at my maternal grandfather’s death. We lived in his house. He and I were very close, even though I was three or four when he passed.

My parents’ lives took them in a direction after 1991 that pretty much made taking care of themselves, their marriage and me all at the same time, well, impossible. My childhood quite often sucked after the first grade. But I have always had, in the way developmental psychologists use the phrase, a secure attachment to both of my parents. I credit their success during my earliest years with the relative success of my relationships with each of them today.

Despite a whole lot of “good” reasons to do so, I never gave up on my parents. At times, I used to think that I should just let it go and accept life without one or the other, that there was no way to bridge the gaps that had opened up between us. I now believe that I never gave up because, during those first six years of my life, my parents taught me that they love me and want to be close to me, no matter what. (“Close” is a relative term, but I am astonished and so proud of what we have achieved.) That bond is what Attachment Parenting seeks to solidify.

Here’s how Dr. Sears lays out the Attachment Parenting basics:

7 ATTACHMENT TOOLS: THE BABY B’S

1. Birth bonding

2. Breastfeeding

3. Babywearing

4. Bedding close to baby

5. Belief in the language value of your baby’s cry

6. Beware of baby trainers

7. Balance

Me & Mom, on October 12th, 1984.

A.   Excessive anxiety and worry (apprehensive expectation) about two (or more) domains of activities or events (e.g., family, health, finances, and school/work difficulties).

B.   The excessive anxiety and worry occurs on more days than not, for 3 months or more

C.   The anxiety and worry are associated with one or more of the following symptoms:

1.   restlessness or feeling keyed up or on edge

2.   muscle tension

D. The anxiety and worry are associated with one (or more) of the following behaviors:

1.   marked avoidance of activities or events with possible negative outcomes

2.   marked time and effort preparing for activities or events with possible negative outcomes

3.   marked procrastination in behavior or decision-making due to worries

4.   repeatedly seeking reassurance due to worries

E. The disturbance causes clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

F. The disturbance is not attributable to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication) or another medical condition (e.g., hyperthyroidism).

G. The disturbance is not better accounted for by another mental disorder (e.g., anxiety about Panic Attacks in Panic Disorder, negative evaluation in Social Anxiety Disorder, contamination or other obsessions in Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, separation from attachment figures in Separation Anxiety Disorder, reminders of traumatic events in Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, gaining weight in Anorexia Nervosa, physical complaints in Somatic Symptom Disorder, perceived appearance flaws in Body Dysmorphic Disorder, or having a serious illness in Illness Anxiety Disorder).

When they say “disturbance,” by the way, they mean the disturbance in, you know, normal functioning. In life.

When they say “one (or more)” turns out, I fall into the “or more” category. Specifically, all of the above.

I like this stuff, because it makes me feel normal. This might seem weird at first, I know. But in the middle of an anxiety attack, I feel like the world’s biggest freak show. “Why am I the only person on the planet who can’t just get up and go to work?!” I tell myself. And then I see something like this and I think “Hey! Look at that! I must not be the only person to freak out about this!”

Some people feel that diagnoses put them in boxes. That’s valid–I’ve just never felt boxed-in or labeled. I attribute this positive history to the fact that I’ve always been under the care of exceptionally talented care professionals. No one has ever said to me “Oh, well obviously you did that because of the GAD.” If anything, my behavior fitting the description above seems to serve only as a confirmation that we’re on a good treatment path. In fact, my care providers almost never mention my diagnoses. And that, friends, is why I feel like this DSM chapter (draft of a chapter?) makes me part of a community of people who struggle with exactly the same stuff I find so difficult. There have to be quite a few people displaying these symptoms before those symptoms make it into a DSM chapter. It’s not a fun club, but it’s better than feeling alone.

For most of this week, I thought about the big sisters neither of us ever got to know. In 1971, my mother was pregnant with twin girls. Her water broke at around six months, and the girls died. I have visited their beautiful, shared grave, headstone decorated with a baby lamb and an angel. I have somehow always known about Jemma and Melanie. I don’t know who told me or when, but they’ve been in my heart all my life. I felt helpless on Thursday, when my dear friend Diana Stone gave birth much too soon to her twin boys. All I can offer her is my own family’s story of the big sisters who will never be forgotten, even though they lived only a few hours.

But now, the big sister who helped raise me is upset, and there is nothing I can do to help. To me, she is the smartest, most competent person in the entire world. She can do anything. I swear. She is the best mom and the best professor and the best wife all at the same time. So when I find out that she set out to do something and it didn’t work out, it takes me a long time to get over my first reaction: sheer confusion. Doesn’t the rest of the world see what I see? And why not?

I was told that I would grow out of this sister-hero-worship. Ha! Clearly, anyone who thinks that doesn’t know my sister. In more-or-less-chronological order, here are some of the reasons my sister is and always will be the most amazing woman I know.

• Even though she left home when I was six-years-old, my sister made a concerted effort to stay involved in my life. Even if that meant trying to talk to a six-year-old on the phone. (My sister: “Do you like first grade?” My mom, in the background: “Anne-Marie, she can’t see you! You have to say something, not just nod.”)
• She gave me the most thoughtful gifts every birthday and every Christmas. Birthdays were for books–Little House books, a series called Dealing with Dragons about a feminist princess (I got one book in the series of four each year). Christmas was for books and board games, which she always played with me. Clue, Carmen Sandiego the board game, Monopoly Junior.
• After she studied abroad in France (at age 20), she brought me back a jar of Nutella and a box of cookies referred to in America as “Little Lu” or “Little Schoolboy” cookies. They have lots of chocolate on top. I love them to this day. And a book, of course, called Linnea in Monet’s Garden, which was the best and most thoughtful way possible to share her love of Monet and to tell me about her trip to the house where he painted all those waterlilies. She successfully brought France to a nine-year-old in Northern Minnesota! I mean, how cool is that?! When I went to France at age 21, all I could think at first was “It’s just like my sister said it would be!” She makes a mean crepe, too.
• She told me about the misogynist themes in the Disney movies long before that was a widely discussed topic. My once beloved Little Mermaid was scorned. How could she just live her life entirely for men like that?! Ugh! But we still shared a love of the music from the good soundtracks.
• She drove us to Duluth, MN, an hour and a half from our parents’ house, to see Beauty and the Beast the first day it came out. And she drove us home through one of the worst thunder stormsI have ever seen. It was the Minnesota equivalent of a hurricane. And she managed to only snap at me once, even though I blubbered and cried that I just wanted to be home and asked her twenty-five times if we were lost.
• She sang and will sing, to this day, any Disney song you feel like singing from the movies I watched 10 million times in her presence. (Provided she has the time–the woman has two children and a more than full-time job nowadays.) She knows all the words to every song. It’s amazing. That song in The Little Mermaid where the chef sings to the fish? “Les poisons, les poisons, how I LOVE les poisons!” Yeah, she could at one point sing the entire thing. Even the French parts. She probably still can, I just haven’t asked in awhile.
• She can sing opera. For real. Mozart and stuff. In foreign languages. And does, at university benefit talent show events.
• Just before I transitioned from elementary to middle school, my sister went to a talk about the “self-esteem gap” middle school girls face. It was a book talk by author Peggy Orenstein who was promoting her excellent book Schoolgirls. She gave me the signed copy she received that day, which not only set me up to survive some middle school misery by repeating to myself “this is normal” and “this will end” but also set me up for a life-long friendship with Peggy, who has been corresponding with me ever so graciously since I wrote to her as a teen.
• Every summer, beginning when I was 12 and ending when I left for college, my sister let me stay with her for three-four weeks in Los Angeles, where she was getting her PhD at UCLA. At the time, I had no idea what a big deal this was, especially since I later got the impression that my parents didn’t reimburse her much for all the money she spent on me. I saw the ocean. She took me to Sea World, Disneyland, Universal Studios, Six Flags: Magic Mountain. She took me to see Breakfast at Tiffanies and Gone with the Wind in actual movie theaters during my Old Hollywood phase.
• During the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, she took me to visit Barnard College, the college I would attend and love with all my heart, even though I thought I had already decided on another school in the area. (Our visit to that other school was a total bust.)

I’ll stop there, even though I could go on through my twenties. Our relationship has changed and grown, especially after she became a mother and could no longer mother me the way she used to. But you get the idea, right?

Do you have a sibling who means the world to you? Are you the person a sibling looks up to?

Sisters at Six Flags: Magic Mountain. I think I'm even wearing a top I borrowed from her!

This photo is on the back cover and was taken by Mike Ruiz.

This is a paid review of You Have No Idea, by Vanessa Williams and Helen Williams, with Irene Zutell for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are all mine.

Confession: I have gone out of my way to avoid learning about Vanessa Williams since I became a fan, ten years ago. I was seventeen the first time I visited New York City, and Into the Woods, starring Williams as The Witch, was the first Broadway show I saw. Ever. At the time, I thought I would be an actress on Broadway when I grew up. My sister took me to the city, and she waited with me outside the stage door after the show to see if Ms. Williams would come out. I didn’t know you could even do that! And guess what. Not only did she come out in her street clothes before too long, but I was one of the lucky few who got my Playbook signed. My sister kind of pushed me forward–I felt shy, and who wouldn’t?–and this amazing actress who has just given me the thrill of my life in a knockout performance looked me in the eyes and smiled right at me. She gave me her autograph right before she got into the car that took her away. As she signed my Playbook, someone in the crowd yelled something about “Rick.” She rolled her eyes a little but answered politely.

I couldn’t believe it. This woman had just performed one of the most difficult roles in musical theater. We had just watched her sing some of the trickiest songs Stephen Sondheim has written. We watched her turn from an ugly, bent, angry old witch into a stunningly beautiful, fierce young witch and mother to a teenage girl (Rapunzel). We watched her take heartless revenge on an innocent couple for the previous generation’s sins, and we watched her sing her heart out in love and, finally, in grief, as she tries to hang on to her daughter. This actress had just run the emotional and physical and vocal gamut. And some jerk asked about her marriage?

I decided right then that I would not be that fan. I would not know who was married to whom. I would know which shows were good and who was worth paying hard-earned money to see. I heard something about Williams’s marriage to Rick Fox, who I had seen playing for the Lakers. I heard it had ended. I was surprised to hear that she had been Miss America, believe it or not, and about the scandal that ended her reign. (I was born in 1984, ok?) But I went out of my way to avoid learning any details.

Until now.

I am so excited to be participating in the BlogHer Book Club this month, because it means that I get to tell you that Vanessa Williams’s first book, the first time she has told her own story in print is a good book full of great stories. Williams demonstrates humility and a sense of humor about herself when she hands the book over to her mother so that we can hear Mom’s side of the story. The two women make no effort to hide that they have had some serious conflicts, but that their family has always emphasized love for one another.

One of my favorite parts of things about this book is that the chapter about the nude photos that lead the Miss America folks to ask for their crown back, which is also Chapter 1, beings with this quote:

“Never pose nude for anyone.” –Helen Williams

Clearly, these are women who have no problem admitting when they have made mistakes.

Here’s what I learned reading this lovely book that I would never have learned reading any second-hand account:

• Vanessa Williams takes her career very seriously, but she takes her family life just as seriously. Her candid words about parenting, and her mothers, are full of humility and love.
• Vanessa Williams may have become famous for being a beauty queen and then, again, for recording best-selling albums. (I always knew the woman could really sing–she’s one of the few “pop” stars my picky musician father respects.) But did you know that her life’s dream was to be a dancer, singer and actor on Broadway? Me neither! I can tell you that she belongs on that stage. That role in Into the Woods? It was originally done by Bernadette Peters. The fact that Williams made it her own and knocked it out of the park is darn impressive.
• Vanessa Williams was raised in the kind of home I wish I’d had. She had stability. Her parents always presented a united front. Lying was not tolerated (not that that stopped a teenage Williams from lying and sneaking out with her boyfriend!) and love was the family focus. Her parents were teachers and musicians who respect and cherish children.
• Helen Williams overcame an incredibly difficult childhood to become a remarkable woman and excellent mother. Imagine being raised by grandparents who beat you and scared you and never knowing why you were not allowed to see or even speak to the mother you loved who lived just up the street! And this woman grew up to trust and love and marry a man who sounds like one of the best guys ever. (Milton Williams has passed away. I bet his chapters of this book, if he had been able to write some, would have been fantastic.)
• If Helen Williams is your mother, you get away with nothing.

And I learned a whole lot more. I also spent quite a bit of time just staring at the many beautiful photos. Vanessa Williams does not seem to be able to take a bad photo. She is stunningly beautiful in a million different ways. I restrained myself, but I’ll say it once:

I had no idea!

Happy. That’s the answer most of the time. I am so happy. I am so happy that I could cry with gratitude. And I have.

Relieved. I am so relieved that this is a time of respite. No turmoil. Just calm and love.

I don’t know why. I don’t know how. But my anxiety baseline plummeted when I became pregnant. I’m not talking about zero. I’m not even talking about person-with-no-anxiety-disorder levels. After all, I’m still anxious about taking the baby I nanny for a walk. (I have no idea why. It’s not rational.) And I have no excuse for not showering even every other day. (Just be grateful I don’t have strong body odor and move on. It’s not rational.)

But I’m not afraid of laundry.

I’m not afraid of leaving the house on time for work or appointments.

I’m not afraid of doctors, not even my psychiatrist.

I’m not afraid of my meds.

I’m not afraid of cooking.

I’m not afraid of doing dishes.

I’m not afraid of cleaning.

I am excited about my upcoming project of putting my regular person clothing in Rubbermaid tubs and clearing out my fabulous Ikea wardrobe for just maternity wear.

I’m excited about organizing our things while we move.

I’m excited to move into the bigger, nicer apartment across the hall.

I’m not afraid of money. I can look at the bank accounts, the bills, the upcoming bills, and no matter what, my heart rate doesn’t even rise.

I’m not afraid to go to therapy or to cancel when I feel sick.

I’m not afraid to rest when I’m sick or just plain need to rest.

If you had given me this list just a year ago, maybe even just this January, I would have said, “That’s not me. It will never be me.” The doctors told me that there’s always a chance that hormones during pregnancy can help you feel happy, not make you anxious or cranky. My mother and sister were both pretty serene pregnant women. But then, they don’t deal with the kind of anxiety I’ve faced, so that always made sense to me. I couldn’t take their experience as a predictor of my own. I prepared for the worst. I braced myself. I warned my husband to brace himself. And then, the test turned positive…

Since then, the world has just settled into place. It has stopped spinning or tilting at random. I literally smell flowers and the rain more intensely (that’s a pregnancy symptom–a super sense of smell). I haven’t felt panic in, oh, about 14 weeks. I know that I still need the medication–if I forget a dose, the anxiety creeps back up. But I am serene in my knowledge that I have made the best choices I could make for me and for my family.

And now, I feel guilty. All that preparation, this entire blog, and I turn out to be the poster child for a happy pregnancy? Ok, not quite the poster child (there are those meds, after all). But seriously, I am happier pregnant than I was before. I am happy. What about all the women I’ve found through this blog who relate to me? Will you still relate to me if my moods remain even? Will you resent me for reacting so well to pregnancy, which has been such a scary experience for some of you? I resent me for reacting so well to something that, according to… who? that’s a good question… according to someone, was supposed to make me an emotional wreck and unpredictable hormonal nightmare.

I was afraid that I would run out of things to write about. I’m glad that I haven’t. I am so glad that I have been given this reprieve. I thank God every day. I do not take this drop in anxiety for granted, not even for a minute. Maybe it will give the book I want to write the kind of happy ending readers love. But who am I without my excuses? Without my disorders? It’s really pretty exciting to find out. Go ahead, strip them from me. I’ll find a new identity. Happily. I still have a strong voice. I am still me. And that is just… weird. It’s completely bizarre. I don’t understand it.

But that’s the thing about gifts from God: I don’t need to understand. I take them and say, “Thank You.”

Bug, at 14 weeks, you are apparently the size of a lemon. But you are sweet as pie! Thank you for all the sweetness you bring to my life, every day.

“Don’t tell everyone just yet.”

“Wait.”

“You haven’t really announced, though, right?”

“It’s so early!”

I was never going to keep from getting my hopes up. I was never going to keep from falling in love with my “baby” even when it was a ball of thirty-odd cells. Something immediately bothered me about the admonitions other women repeated to keep my pregnancy to myself. I tried to consider it.

Several scenarios played out in my imagination. One: I tell everyone as soon as I feel like it & have a healthy, happy pregnancy. The end. Two: I tell everyone “too soon,” have a miscarriage, and friends and family rally around me in support as I grieve. Three: I don’t tell anyone, have a miscarriage, and… what? Suffer in silence?

I have tried to understand the reason behind continuing this tradition where we all keep quiet until after the first trimester ends–just in case. I understand that miscarriage is not a comfy subject to talk about. I understand the fear that, while trying to recover, emotionally, you will have to answer someone’s innocent “So how are you feeling?” (not a single person who knows I am pregnant asks me “How are you?” any more–I find this custom endearing, though) with such terrible news.

Here’s the thing, though: I am terrible at hiding emotions. There is no way I would be able to keep from showing my grief on my face, all the time. I do not see how I could pretend that the pregnancy had not happened. And wouldn’t somebody wonder? I would hope that someone would notice the change in me.

What bothers me most about this tradition, however, is that its roots lie in a long history of shame. Women have long pretended that sexuality, pregnancy, birth and, of course, miscarriage, simply do not exist. For many women, a miscarriage feels like a huge failure. If it remains a secret, if women feel like terrible wives, or if we see it as some sort of “sign” that we aren’t good enough, we can’t give each other the chance to share the burden of grief.

I’m not suggesting that everyone announce every pregnancy the minute the test turns positive. Not every woman who has suffered a loss is going to want to discuss a miscarriage publicly. I would simply like to leave it up to each family.

And yet, I could not escape this advice: don’t go around telling everyone. Wait. The miscarriage rate is still too high. Obviously, I have to have told you if you are giving me this advice. Why didn’t you want to know? Why wouldn’t you want to know that I had lost this dearly wished-for baby? Why couldn’t I turn to you in this joy and, if the worst happened, turn to you in my grief?

I felt shamed. I felt pressure to hide my joy, lest it turn to grief. We did wait–sort of. We told immediate family, and very close friends. But after we saw our little “Bug” at our eight-ish weeks ultrasound, we told everyone. Yes, it’s different for a blogger. My readers were waiting for the news, because I had devoted my entire blog to my preconception journey.

Everything has worked out wonderfully, and everyone is so excited to hear all the news, now that I have begun the second trimester of this healthy pregnancy. And yet, I have trouble forgiving the women (it was always women) who responded to my “I’m pregnant!” with “Don’t tell too many people” and an implied “You might have a miscarriage.” I just cannot believe that that is an appropriate or helpful response. If a woman announces a pregnancy at four weeks, eight weeks or twenty weeks, she is still pregnant. If she feels joy in sharing that fact, no amount of risk to her fetus ought to dampen that joy.

My sanity saver this week goes to another product–ASOS (a UK company that sells in the US online) makes maternity jeans that are cleverly disguised to look just like normal person jeans! When I started wearing maternity pants and skirts, I noticed something: wearing bottoms that pull on and off makes me feel rather… well… like a little kid. Look, my belly is not so big yet that I can’t zip and button a freaking pair of pants or skirt! I just need the waistband to be a little more flexible. Enter, ASOS and a fabulous sale that allowed me to justify my purchase.

Here’s what the “boyfriend” jeans I bought look like on the model:

the slouchy, comfy "boyfriend" maternity jean

And here is the genius behind these particular jeans:

the cleverly hidden stretch panels are behind the pockets!

Things I did not know until I opened the package include:

1) Pre-distressed “worn” spots. I normally do not buy jeans like this, I have accepted it and moved on. If I buy another pair of ASOS jeans, I’ll probably get a different style. These are super comfy and soft, though.

2) Inside the waistband, on both sides, you can tighten or loosen the amount of stretch in your waistband with a tuxedo-pant-like button/elastic system. It’s truly awesome. Awesome.

I am in love! (ASOS has no idea who I am. This just my sadly unpaid opinion.)

Maternity Clothes? We are there! The “regular” jeans do not work. I love stretchy-waist pants. I need maternity tops. Between my ridiculously huge bust expansion and my new bump, there is no regular summer tee that covers both top and bottom. Thank goodness for Gap sales–six more maternity shirts are on their way. My lovely sister-in-law is letting me borrow her maternity clothes, but I won’t get them until after she gives birth in July. Yeah, we’re going to need a few basics to get us from here to July! I am still pretty excited for all the cute, non-basics she sports. She has excellent taste, that lady.

Weight Gain? Still about 8-10 lbs. I ate a ton in the first couple weeks, then the nausea kicked in. To be perfectly honest, I was not eating enough before I got pregnant. Anxiety has a really great knack for killing my appetite. I am now hungry much more often, I am sure it’s because of the pregnancy in general, but it’s also because I am less anxious, now. Why would I become less anxious during pregnancy? There are many theories, but nobody knows. All I have to say is: thank you, God! (That’s a sincere thank you to the God I sincerely believe in.)

Stretch Marks? Oh, yes. All on the breasts. It makes me sad. There were already stretch marks from my A-D overnight expansion during middle school.

Sleep? I’m not sleeping as easily as I was sleeping during the first trimester. I keep dreaming that I’m chain smoking and realize just before I wake up that I’m pregnant. (I used to smoke–self-medicaiton for anxiety. Turned out to be ineffective but addictive. Yeah, I know. Duh!) I am still sleeping better than I was before, though!

Best Moment so Far? During the last ultrasound, about 10 days ago, Bug rubbed tiny, sealed-shut eyes with teeny tiny fists! Yes, I died of cute, a little. It’s one of the first reflexes they develop, by the way.

Movement? Yes, actually! There is sometimes a fluttering in my uterus when I lay down at night. It makes me think of butterflies. No, it’s not gas. Gas never makes me think of butterflies. And by this point in pregnancy, I know a lot about every possible kind of gas bubble. This is Bug. And it’s awesome, awe-inspiring, all-around extraordinary. I’m in love.

Gender/Sex? See here.

What I miss? I want my pretty, normal-sized bras back, and I want my chest to stop hurting. Seriously, there is so much pain some days. This H cup nonsense is for the birds. And I have no idea if my old figure will ever come back or when. Post coming soon on body issues.

Symptoms:

• Cravings: potatoes (any variety, but especially chips and fried) but mostly cheese. Beans and rice and anything spicy are also on the list, but I eat lots of cheese every day.
• Food aversions: I can drink coffee again. I found this out the hard way, when I woke up this morning with a migraine and a Double Shot left over in the fridge from the last migraine plus two tylenol were the most pregnancy-safe solutions I could find. (Did you know that a Starbucks Double Shot, supposedly containing two shots of espresso, has only 130 mg of caffeine in them? That’s a lot, but pregnant women are allowed up to 250/300 mg per day. Just FYI. And a little prod to never give a pregnant woman with a Starbucks or Dunkin cup in her hand a single dirty look. Ever. Even if there are three shots of espresso in that cup, she is not engaging in anything her doctor wouldn’t approve.)
• Second Trimester signs: no more nausea! Baby bump!
• I already mentioned the breast issue. It bears repeating. OUCH!

What I’m looking forward to: On Thursday, we will have a “fancy ultrasound” – my gyn’s words. It’s actually the somewhat-controversial NT scan. My pregnancy apps warned me to think about this in advance, but we weren’t even asked if we wanted what is known as “first-trimester screening.” It is optional, and I had already decided to do it.

The controversy comes from the fact that the blood work I had done on Saturday, plus the ultrasound on Thursday, done by an ultrasound tech (my doctor has done all of them thus far), will give us a number that is meant to indicate the risk of our baby having Down’s Syndrome. This is controversial for many couples because of the common (and in my experience mis-) conception that a “high risk” result will lead to the termination of the pregnancy. For everyone I’ve talked to, we want to know if the risk is high so that we can prepare ourselves for parenting a special needs child. In our case, I’d need to apply for a lot of government help, and I’d really rather start that learning curve the day I give birth. Honestly, though, our risk is so low–no family history, I’m under 30–that I am looking forward to Thursday because it means more time with Bug! My mother-in-law, soon to be known as “Gram,” is coming up from Long Island to “meet” Bug. Because the fetus has to be in a certain position for the tech to get the right measurement (they are apparently measuring the ‘translucency’ of the fat on the back of the little fetus’s neck–sounds difficult to me!), this scan could take awhile. There’s an alternate babysitter lined up for the baby I care for. We are all ready and waiting to see Bug for as long as they’ll let us!

What I’ve Learned about Pregnancy: I have felt and will continue to feel my uterus expand. Maybe this should have been obvious. It was not. I was quite shocked to feel myself being stretched from the inside. I know–totally weird and kind of creepy. Also? Ouch.

Milestones: The first trimester is done! (That means our risk of a miscarriage is really low, now.) And I’m showing! Did I mention that I’m showing?

I know, all of a sudden, a person! Albeit, a person with a head as big as his/her body... Also, those little round dots? Hands! We saw kicking legs and feet, too, but they're not visible in this photo.