An infant in the house? Already?

Something has occurred to me. Pregnant women? Not that different from newborns.

Here is what I do on weekends (and what I would do during the week, only I can't):

Eat. Sleep. Spit up. And poop more than is normal. Ahem.

I don't know, man. I don't think this pregnancy thing is all it's cracked up to be. I'm definitely not one of those women that glow and feel all attuned to the earth and the tides, and the life mother, or what the hell ever.

It's been a rough week. Rough at the office, rough at home with some pret-ty tired kids, rough with life-is-hard stuff, and rough relations with me and my body.

--When I vomit, I burst the blood vessels around my eyes, giving me, essentially, red freckles. This bothers me immensely.

--I have discovered that insomnia doesn't go away just because you're pregnant and need more sleep but can't take anything. I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week.

--Headaches don't go away either.

--A really great way to be awakened is to be starving at 3:00 in the morning because you vomited up all your dinner five hours before.

--My breasts. They may look nice, but they freak me the frak out. They're not bigger, they're just...fatter. And higher. And harder. And lumpier. And thus bear an unfortunate resemblance to fake breasts.

--A sudden inability to get up a flight of stairs without wanting to pass out. But being unwilling to take the train anywhere because of the subsequent vomiting.

Things aren't really as bad as all that, they just kind of seem like it this week. We did go to the doctor on Monday, and saw the heartbeat (!) and got a picture, which I would scan and post here except for how it really doesn't look like anything. I was standing next to my friend Andrea pointing at the baby, saying "No, it's the white blobby thing in the middle of the black blobby thing in the middle of the bigger white blobby thing." She nodded hesitantly. "Cute...."

I hear tell that the second trimester is way more fun. It had better be.