So Long, R. Kelly.

My headaches seem to start in the late afternoon or early evening, so clever little minx that I am, I hit upon the idea of writing my post earlier instead of waiting until I am blinded with pain and must resort to digging through unpacked boxes for a picture of myself as a baby/Hollywood agent. Of course this goes against the Flotsam Code of leaving all tasks until the last possible moment, but as all would-be starlets and contestants on America’s Next Top Model eventually discover, sometimes a girl has to leave her morals behind to get ahead. Speaking of which, I am drinking a great big cup of contraband at the moment. It is only iced tea, but I know one is supposed to avoid such things while gestating. Babies hate caffeine, or so I am told, but I can’t imagine they are big fans of pain-induced vomiting either, so on the off chance that a bit of caffeine will be a sufficient vaso-constrictor to stave off another migraine, iced tea it is. I felt weirdly defensive buying it, however, now that I am officially showing. One of my favorite treats has been a steamed milk with almond from the coffee shop upstairs, but yesterday as I walked back to my desk with my insulated cardboard cup, I could have sworn I got several disapproving looks.
I came out of the closet to my team on Tuesday, as planned. Somehow I ended up revealing more than my pregnancy—just after I said how far along I was I blurted “with twins,” possibly feeling defensive about my girth. I am not sure that was the best idea, but my boss already knew, and I suppose it was bound to get out eventually. That is what I tell myself anyway, to quell the rising flood of panic.
The twins announcement caused a lot of excitement, and right away someone asked whether we had been surprised to find out there were two or if twins run in our families. I said “No, but we did IVF so we knew it was a possibility.” Hopefully that will nip any further “Do twins run in your family?” questions in the bud, although now I am kicking myself for not specifying that we knew it was a possibility because we transferred two embryos, not just because we did IVF. Anyhow, as nervous as I am now that everyone knows I am pregnant (and thus will have to be told if something goes amiss), it is just as well that I unveiled my secret when I did: In the last week I seem to have “popped,” as people say—my stomach has gone from vast-for-me-yet-still-ambiguous to a strangely hard little mound that startles me when I catch a glimpse of myself from the side. I suddenly look both thinner and pregnant-er, as if the mass of my midsection has organized itself somehow, presumably in preparation for taking over the rest of my body. Even when I lie down it stands up proudly, refusing to be kept down by the oppressive hand of gravity.

I am a wee bit anxious today, as I am waiting for a call from our genetic counselor. He is supposed to have the results of the screening bloodwork that went along with the Nuchal ultrasound, as well as those of a test to see whether I am a Cystic Fibrosis carrier. I am fairly hopeful that the screening bloodwork will be normal, as the Nuchal measurements were beyond reproach, but I am worried about the CF test. The genetic counselor was surprised I hadn’t already had it, as apparently it is part of the initial screening at most IVF clinics. Not mine, unfortunately, and with my ethnic background I have about a 1 in 20 chance of being a carrier. That seems…high. If I am a carrier, Scott will need to get tested, and if he is also a carrier, then I suppose there will be a scramble for CVS, if it isn’t too late, or amnio, and then we would be looking at a 1 in 4 chance of Cystic Fibrosis per baby. I am trying not to think about it, honestly, which is why I didn’t mention it earlier, but in truth I find this a bit nerve-wracking, as all of the potential unfavorable outcomes are complicated with twins.

So, besides the takeout tortellini I have been craving and some Tivo, my Friday night will include a subtly hysterical email to the genetic counselor, should he fail to call. And a date with Colace, as thanks to the Zofran it has now been six days since my last, er, movement.
Tomorrow, though, should be legitimately exciting, as I will hit the magical 13 week mark my OB gave me as the date I can stop worrying (quite as much) about miscarriage (and start worrying about incompetent cervix and preterm labor, naturally). It is also the date I am using as the start of the second trimester (I could just cry typing that—I can’t believe I am lucky enough to be here). It is also past the end of my OB’s vaginal-lockdown-until-week-12 sex ban, and as I have been told that the ban will resume at 24 weeks, I am hoping to make the most of the next three months, even if it means drawing Scott a diagram of my Lady and Baby Parts so that he can be reassured that—despite being ever so manly—he is in no danger of giving the Science Babies concussions. What’s more, I am hoping to cajole him into a trip to Dairy Queen for the Blizzard I have been dreaming about for over a fortnight: for some reason I thought Dairy Queen closed after summer, and had resolved myself to a long, Blizzard-less wait for satisfaction. But no! I saw a commercial indicating otherwise only yesterday!
(I am possibly even more excited about this than I am about the lifting of the sex ban, surely a sad commentary on…something. Probably my current relationship with ice cream).