I had a blood test and nuchal scan this week to check my chances of the baby having Down’s syndrome or other abnormalities. I was told the results take around seven to 10 days. I just hope the test results come back OK. I really don’t fancy the idea of having an amniocentesis which is where a needle gets stuck in my bump. Dani had to have one when she was pregnant with Archie and she said she found the whole thing pretty nerve-wracking, especially having to wait for the results.
If all the pregnancy websites are right this was supposed to be when I would stop feeling sick and finally start blooming – cue pictures of women with small, perfectly formed bumps, glossy hair and glowing with radiant energy. Hmm, I think someone should have passed this piece of good news onto the baby. I still want to throw up every other day and staggered to work this week looking my usual ashen- coloured self. As for more energy, forget it, the only thing I want to do at the moment is flop down somewhere comfortable and sleep for hours.
Thankfully work is loads calmer as Susan is on holiday, so I caught up with all my filing – totally dull, but it stopped the paper mountain of doom in its tracks and left me with plenty of time to decide when I should start my maternity leave. After having a chat with Dani, I reckon may be week 34, which should give me the chance to get all the last-minute nursery stuff out of the way just in case baby decides to put in an early appearance.
Apart from that, had a row with Nick on Friday. I came home from work feeling totally wiped out but happy as I thought we’d agreed to spend the night in and watch a DVD together but, unknown to me, he had arranged to go out with his mates from work. Just as I was beginning to wonder where he was he rang me from the pub to explain that ‘the A-team’ (yes, terrifyingly they really do call each other that) had met their sales’ target this month so he’d been ‘forced’ to celebrate (with a stupidly hot curry and industrial-sized quantities of lager) with the others.
Normally I wouldn’t have cared, but I was feeling so yuck and tired that I threw a strop and told him in no uncertain terms that it was a bit inconsiderate not to let me know as I'd been looking forward to our night in together all week – and I was carrying his child (pregnancy hormones are always handy for adding a touch of melodrama to the proceedings). Then I put the phone down with as much wounded dignity as I could muster.
Whatever time it was when he got back he must have felt pretty guilty as I found a bunch of flowers waiting for me in the kitchen the next morning, and he insisted that I had breakfast in bed, which is not something that happens very often.
P.S. Don’t know if it’s down to the old pregnancy hormones, or if it’s because I haven’t had sex for a while, but some of the dreams I’m having are really, really rude. It’s totally bizarre – and quite disturbing – one of them was about my director at work and the day after I'd had it I couldn't help blushing whenever I talked to him! He must have thought I was crazy. (Funnily enough, I haven’t told Nick about these dreams).