I have a pretty resilient gut (I have worked it well over the years). I’ve had food poisoning like twice in my entire life, and only projectile vomited food on account of it being bad once (watermelon, nice and pink). You need to know these things. Really, you do.

Because the indigestion has started. My cast iron constitution usually prevents anything I eat from troubling me too much, but APPARENTLY a certain alien entity is throwing everything into disarray. It’s doing a one of these <- I can tell. I’m all… what the hell? Food is now my enemy? Que?!

I’ve decided I don’t like indigestion or heartburn. It makes me unhappy and burpy. Never mind the fact I need to eat often so I don’t feel like I’m starving because I can’t eat much at once (even less than before this saga began, if you can believe it). Now I’m forcing food down on top of acid reflux, and it’s stinky.

Sam says this is all a natural and beautiful thing, but his throat isn’t burning and he’s not making squeaky little urpy noises constantly. Natural and beautiful my eye.

Sorry for the abundance of bitch whine moan. I don’t really buy into the romantic notion of pregnancy, so I’m not going to gush over it. It’s biology. Lemurs do it. Gnus do it. Orangutans do it. It’s pretty cool, but barring celestial visitations, it’s probably not ascribable to a miracle. (Sorry spawn-to-be, you’ll get used to the cynicism). I am discovering that many bits of this process are not fun, and that’s fine, but I’m not going to pretend it’s all awesome. At least antacids exist.

Stretchy pants segue.

After putting it off for as long as humanly possible, I invested in stretchy pants – and I may never go back. I know I am usually something of a style icon, but these things are damned comfortable. You can like, sit down and breathe AT THE SAME TIME. When it got to the point where I was playing footsy with my neighbour at work while trying to find a comfortable position to sit in all day, I finally decided waistbands are the enemy and made me some new friends.

Buying stretchy pants was doubly fun cause Sam has the weekend off so was forced to come with me. One of the greatest joys in my life is making that boy suffer, and taking him maternity pants shopping rates quite highly on my scale of torments. He mostly behaved but refuses to look at baby clothes til we know the gender. Like it matters, boys can wear dresses too (Eddie dresses prettier than I do. Incidentally, watch this).

16 weeks may be a little on the early side, but why fight the inevitable. Apparently bulge largitude is dependent on your ab muscle tone, which I hear other people have. Since I’ve spent most of my life rather flobbly, everything’s making a bid for freedom already. Especially after I’ve eaten, since the bulk of it would appear not to be gremlin, but dinner and disturbing levels of padding and bloat. Someday soon someone will don a wetsuit and throw a bucket of water on me.

No, you mayn’t see photos. Allow me a tiny smidgen of denial while I can still muster it. Well, OK, here’s a small and not too illustrative shot from the wedding (Sam took it, I’m not telling where I’ve hidden his body). There will be NO leggings photos, tartan or otherwise.

Oh, and work knows now, which is nice.