Reflections on a (first) first trimester
I woke up, slipped into the bathroom, and gingerly took the plastic-wrapped test out of the box I’d stashed below the sink. I read and re-read the instructions, followed them, and set the test on the counter. Two minutes. My heart pounded, and a shining balloon of hope expanded in my chest. I took a deep breath — nothing to get excited about yet. I left the bathroom and busied myself in the kitchen filling a glass with water. I drank it in two gulps, washed a mug, and wiped down a portion of the countertops. I went back to the bathroom, and my eyes narrowed on two intersecting blue lines.
The balloon in my chest expanded — but before it could burst into full-blown excitement, I took another deep breath — a positive pregnancy test does not guarantee a baby. Rather than dash back to the bedroom and explode the news onto my slumbering husband, I went to my computer. My first search: “What percentage of pregnancies miscarry?” The top result said 10–20% — high enough to keep my excitement in check. Still — I felt a small thrill — there was a good chance that in less than a year, I would be a mom.
A million more questions flooded my mind — first, coffee — was I allowed to have caffeine? I asked Google and scanned the results — “Yes, but hold the refills.” I winced — normally I drank half a pot each morning. I read on — clicking through mommy forums, research papers, and medical journals. The accepted recommendation seemed to be that up to 200mg caffeine a day — a paltry 12oz — was “safe.” I brewed the coffee and drank a single mug. Along with too-little caffeine, I absorbed the realization that this was just the tip of the parental-sacrifices iceberg.
I braced myself — a friend had described her first trimester as a sort of “prenatal purgatory.” I was daunted, but also inspired by the comparison. On the one hand, the prospect of prolonged nausea left me reeling. On the other hand, I liked the idea that the discomfort wouldn’t be a waste, but rather (I congratulated myself on the poetic thought ) — “a fire to forge virtue.” I envisioned that at the end of 12 weeks I would be transformed — serene and smiling in the face of pain or discomfort.
My visions of serenity quickly collided with reality. The term “morning sickness” failed to prepare me for the queasiness and fatigue that permeated my mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Three weeks after the positive pregnancy test, I was daunted by the idea of a short walk, and I spent most of my free time sleeping, or escaping into the turbulent plot lines of Downton Abbey.
Food soon lost its appeal, but every hour my stomach demanded, “Eat something — quick!” In the same breath, it groaned that my last meal was a terrible mistake. I blanched at meat, vegetables, and almost anything of nutritional value. After nearly a decade of following a Paleo diet, I was shocked by the readiness with which I abandoned it. My husband’s bafflement grew alongside mine, as I gravitated instead toward items from my childhood — mac and cheese, frozen pizza, bean and cheese burritos. Even more surprising to me — I didn’t have the energy to care.
I did worry about how my nutrition (or lack thereof) might affect the baby. One day I looked in the mirror and my ghostly pallor alerted me to the lack of iron in my diet. I eventually worked out a passably nutritious routine, but while my aversions evolved, our fridge swelled with half-eaten items — tofu, kidney beans, sauerkraut.
As my symptoms escalated, my hopes of a grandiose transformation waned. Still, each morning in the afterglow of that single cup of coffee, I’d renew my initial resolve — I could be stronger, stay positive no matter what. I usually made it through the workday — I hadn’t told my coworkers I was pregnant, so I had no excuse to appear “off” for weeks on end. But by the time my husband got home, my resolve collapsed and I dissolved into a puddle of self-pity. I wailed at the smell of garlic (I’d forbidden cooking meat but made grudging allowance for vegetables), demanded my latest craving from Trader Joe’s (and how dare he hesitate to go on the third food-errand of the the day — immediately), and resolutely ignored the colony of dishes that sprung up around me (a by-product of my hourly trial-and-error snacking).
In particularly bad moments, I’d exclaim out loud — often to an empty room — “THIS. IS JUST. SO. AWFUL!” And with this exclamation, I’d register an unconscious demand — I must get rid of this feeling.
Then one day I realized — I didn’t have to defeat the discomfort. All I had to do was endure it. By re-framing the goal from “I must feel good” to simply “I must get through this,” I felt like I’d been freed from the grip of an indomitable enemy.
After that I still struggled, sometimes letting feelings of helplessness and self-pity drag me back into the enemy’s vise. But when I pried myself loose, I credited myself with small victories — getting through a meeting while my stomach was making ominous threats, sticking to a social engagement when just getting off the couch felt like a herculean effort.
More surprising, I didn’t agonize over the imperfections — those low-iron weeks, or the shampoo I used before hearing about the “dangers” of sodium lauryl sulfate. This was in part thanks to a midwife friend’s reassurances — the baby would be fine — but also because I knew that I could do everything perfectly, and things could still go wrong. Oddly, I found this more comforting than alarming. I couldn’t control everything.
I found other comforts. I’d started taking walks before work around the neighborhood pond, and in the cool gray morning light I’d appreciate the awesomeness — in the true sense of the word awe — of what was happening. I knew the feeling of serenity wouldn’t last long, that within a few minutes or hours I’d succumb to grumbling and frustration. But in those moments, I was grateful. Other times I found surprising relief singing songs from old musicals — Oklahoma’s “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” became a favorite on mornings that felt anything but beautiful.
Best of all, I got to relive that initial thrill each time I shared the news. In my parents’ and grandparents’ voices I heard mingled nostalgia and hope — their own memories of babies, children, and grandchildren morphing into joyful visions for my future. To my friends I recounted the absurdity of each day’s new craving — a plain beef taco from Taco Bell (no tomatoes, no sour cream, no guacamole), or Campbell’s potato soup (out of the can, cold). And throughout it all, my husband — ready adopter of his new roles as remote-fetcher, water glass re-filler, and back-rubber — demonstrated an uncanny ability to replace my scowls with fits of laughter.
By the end of the twelfth week, I hadn’t undergone any dramatic transformation. I arrived at the doctor for my final first trimester appointment worn out, but relieved. That was good enough. I lay on the examination table, eager to put the riskiest stage of the pregnancy behind me. And there, with the sonographer guiding the the ultrasound probe through the cool gel on my stomach, I had my most unexpectedly transformative moment.
During the eight-week ultrasound, my husband and I were awed by the sound of the heartbeat, but it had been hard to make out the baby from the other shapes on the screen. But now at twelve weeks, the image on the ultrasound screen was — unmistakably — a baby. And it was moving. Perhaps it was involuntary, but in my eyes, my baby was arching its back to assume a more comfortable position, raising its arms in response to the strange object pressing down on the walls of its home.
Seeing those tiny feet, those hands curling and releasing, I took the lid off the excitement I’d suppressed since the positive pregnancy test. I left the doctor’s office with a grin that remained plastered to my face all the next morning. Excitement kept escaping me in bursts — an impromptu jig while waiting for the coffee to brew, off-key trills (“tra-laaaaa!”) erupting from my throat as I opened the mail, shamelessly proud texts of our baby’s ultrasound silhouette. And as I cradled my stomach, I pictured my “little buddy” nestled inside. The nausea, the fatigue, the fears — all faded from the forefront, and I was overtaken by a single thought: “You know what, kid? You’re so worth it.”
Reflections on a (first) first trimester
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