Sunday, February 24, 2008


Eleven weeks feels like a big milestone, but the DBTs have been creeping in lately. These issues are partly sponsored by the letter P. P has been spending his evenings and weekends staining and polyurethane-ing furniture in our basement, and the fumes have permeated much of our house. It completely freaks me out, but he doesn't seem to get it. I know I was on him to finish this project (which he started a year ago), but I wanted him to finish it a year ago, not while I was in the first trimester of a pregnancy filled with fear and paranoia.

I know miscarriage rates drop significantly once you hear a normal heartbeat at 9 weeks, but I have a hard time believing that this statistic has anything to do with me. It feels remote and clinical. I think in part this is because no one I know in real life has had a miscarriage and gone on to have a subsequent pregnancy result in a real life baby.

My aunt miscarried when I was in college and was later told she wouldn't be able to carry another pregnancy to term, which put a lot of pressure on my then-little cousin. And very few of my real life friends have kids. I have one friend who has miscarried. She is pregnant now too. And we commiserate a lot, since we live in the same little freaked out place much of the time.

I feel like time is moving so slowly.

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