Awesome, awesome tiredness: tick. It’s not even like it’s that tiredness you get after one too many glasses of wine and one too few hours of sleep before a workday kind of tiredness. It just pervades everything, not least of all my mind. Sleep is becoming a rare treat: I think last night I got up to wee five times. The last two times I didn’t even get back to sleep. So yeah. Great training there.
Irrational worries about the baby: will it be DEFORMED when it comes out? What if I drop it? The other day I felt a funny, regular kind of pulsing deep down womb-way. For a few minutes I worried myself sick that somehow the baby’s heart and seeped out the side of its ribcage and was beating outside of its body. Then I realised that the beat was too slow and was probably just hiccups (later confirmed by my GP, who said that babies often gorge themselves on amniotic fluid and get indigestion, thus the hiccups).
Reflux/heartburn/indigestion (sans hiccups): Jesus Christ. I never thought that one of my favourite activities – burping – would turn into such a harbinger of pain and suffering. The other night I slept sleeping up because the five Rennies and entire tub of Yeo Valley yoghurt did jack shit in my digestive system. I believe I may have dozed lightly between two and three am. I find it gets much, much worse when I’m hungry, and interestingly, when I go to yoga. Yoga is another story.
Uncomfortableness: I got this one in spades. No longer can I sit still for hours working on my photography or reading the paper. Every five seconds I think I’ve found The Spot and then two seconds later I change my mind.
Restless legs: Relates very strongly to the uncomfortableness. My legs – especially when I’m lying down – are never, ever still. They are either thinking about moving around or moving just enough to narrowly avoid leg cramps.
Rampant appetite, diminishing stomach, ever-extending belly: Increasing, decreasing, increasing, in that order. I am perpetually hungry and can often be seen close to snatching food from The Beloved’s hand. It takes about two mouthfuls of anything to make me full (and give me indigestion, if those two mouthfuls have even looked at the spice cabinet), and each day I wake up, look at my belly and think … ‘How much bigger can this thing possibly get?’
Random moments of crying: At Asda last Saturday the cashier made me cry by asking me if I was having twins. It took about two seconds for me to sob out that no, it was just one in there, and yes, I am REALLY FUCKING FAT, OK?
