11 weeks pregnant… again
And so I’m 11 weeks pregnant… again. And by again I don’t mean for the third time in my life. I mean for the third time this pregnancy.
The first midwife, when I gave her the date of my last period told me I was 7 weeks pregnant. Turns out she miscalculated and I was only 6. Knocking back your week count by 1 is terrible.
Then I went for the first ultrasound last Friday (ultrasounds, by the way, NEVER GET OLD. This ultrasound was every bit as exciting and miraculous as my first ultrasound with Benjy). The baby is perfect- perfect little feet, perfect little legs, perfect little heart- emphasis on LITTLE. My due date was recalculated, bumped back by six days- nearly a full week.
Knocking back your week by count, as I said, is terrible. Knocking it back by TWO weeks?! Man, oh man.
And it’s not that I mind that the baby will be inside me six days longer. I’m absolutely intent on enjoying these next few months of relative peace. I’m willing to let Henry continue to be the youngest for as long as possible. I’m so outrageously excited about meeting this baby, but I’m in no rush.
Bumping back my due date just means that I’ll spend six more days in morning sickness hell. It means I’ll be too exhausted to function for SIX MORE DAYS. It means the full day wedding I’m going to shoot in a week will take place at the start of week 13, not at week 14 when I expect morning sickness to subside. It means moving house, subbing at daycare, getting my kids settled in their new daycare, finishing up photography, and spending time with my family will be considerably more difficult for six more days.
Six more days.
I can do this.