It's Crazy Time, Sprout!

It's been a little over two weeks since our most recent peek at Peeper, and there are four days to go til my next appointment (I don't expect an ultrasound then, but probably a listen with the Doppler), so it's about that time again.

You know, the time when I start freaking out because I've haven't had any proof at all for days - days, I tell you! - that all is well in there, so how could I possibly know that Peeper is okay?!?

Here's the basic pattern that I've been in for, oh, the past 10 weeks or so:

• Consult a medical professional and see positive pee stick / positive beta / rising beta / ultrasound images of an actual live human residing inside my body.
• Feel incredibly relieved and reassured.
• Blog / email / tell the entire world that all is well with Peeper.
• Coast for a few days, feeling great about things.
• Be asked 534,322 times by well-meaning friends and associates, "So, how are you feeling?"
• Answer that, "I'm feeling just fine. Quite normal, actually."
• Begin to wonder why I'm feeling so damn "normal."
• Wonder why I'm not having any of those legendary awful pregnancy symptoms that one hears so much about.
• Begin to think that it's all been a cruel trick, an elaborate conspiracy, or perhaps just a pathetic fantasy.
• Think about how completely stupid I'm going to look when the jig is up.
• Fret, worry, act like a general all-around nutball.
• Consult a medical professional and see positive pee stick / positive beta / rising beta / ultrasound images of an actual live human residing within my body.
• Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Yep, it's big fun for all involved.

Shrike and I have decided that the "other side" of Gestation Island (you know, over where the headhunters live) is Crazy Pregnant Land.

I like to head over there as often as possible.

Shrike's not so much a fan.

I think it's a combination of the general, all-around surreality of it all, the "you can't have a dream!" expectation that I tend have and, most concretely, how asymptomatic, and quite frankly, how damn (dare I say it outloud) easy pregnancy has been for me so far.

With so few symptoms, I've not got much to go on but the ultrasounds (and thank God there have been so many of them) so, while I know it's completely irrational, I do think that it's at least a little bit understandable (maybe?) that I would doubt the reality of the situation.

There's also this related prior experience that I keep being reminded of, which has to be contributing to my craz-ee-ness:

Several years ago, when MamaCat was just a WannaBeMamaCat (well, okay, I wanted her to be a MamaCat; she didn't have a whole lot to say about it) I fixed her up with a nice young tom cat (owned by a lady who went to church with LadyKay, so I knew he came from a good family) and arranged a little romantic rendezvous for the two of them.

Actually, first there was a brief, not-so-romantic visit at his house, during which she hid behind the couch for twenty-four hours, showing zero interest in him. We decided she was on her way out of heat, and I took her home to wait for the next round.

In a couple of weeks, the mood struck her again and this time, KittyDaddy CatDaddy (™ Shrike) spent Thanksgiving weekend with us, and let me tell ya, he had plenty to be thankful for by the time he went home - if you know what I mean, wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

(MamaCat, maybe not so much. Do you know about the barbs? I'm assuming this is why she turned around and smacked the shit out of him as soon as he finished doing his biz-ness. Every time. Kind of kinky, those kitties.)

Any-whooo. Her paramour went home, and I assumed that: a> she's a cat, and b> she just had a long-weekend of repeated kitty-nooky, ergo, make room for kittens.

On the advice of my vet, I started feeding her kitten food and vitamins, and soon she started putting on weight (she was pretty skinny to start with), and didn't come into heat (typically, she was in and out about every two weeks) so I figured I was going to have some grandkitties in a couple of months.

As the weeks progressed, I did wonder when she was going to start getting a belly, rather than just generally "filling out" and when her nipples were going to "pink up" as my feline pregnancy calendar (what? you got a problem with that?) predicted.

Then, about six weeks into her "pregnancy," she started acting like she was heat.

What the fuck?

I took her to the vet, and he confirmed that she was in heat, and was not, nor had she ever been, pregnant.

(Two theories - either she didn't have enough weight on her to be ovulating, or CatDaddy wasn't quite ready for the big leagues, as he was still fairly young at that point.)

Because of logistical concerns, I waited a couple of weeks til her next heat, invited him back over, and nine weeks later BoyCat, GirlCat and two their brothers arrived.

In that situation, all's well that ends well, but I sure felt stupid that I'd been thinking my cat was pregnant - and telling everybody that she was pregnant - and maybe kind of wondering why she wasn't showing many signs of pregnancy, but still just going right along with the whol "she's pregnant" thing for weeks.

(The weight gain is easily explained by the kitten food, although I don't know why she skipped a heat cycle or two.)

Within a few weeks of their second honeymoon, her nipples pinked right up, her belly got all hard and round (I have a very cute photo of her a few days before they were born, standing up on her hindlegs, in profile, looking all the world like a furry little pregnant lady.) and I could feel the kittens moving around in there when we snugged at night, and sometimes I could see them moving - from across the room.

Yep, no doubt she was really pregnant this time, and I felt even stupider for getting tricked the first time around.

Now, of course, MamaCat hadn't peed on any sticks, or taken any blood tests, or had six fucking ultrasounds, by four different doctors at three different clinics (really now, could they all be in on the conspiracy?) so the analogy doesn't really hold up very well, but the whole "I'm being told that I'm pregnant, but not seeing the symptoms I expect" thing is just a little too deja vu for my comfort.

(Keeping in mind, of course, that I'm crazy. Which makes it much more understandable. Right?)

Of course, if I really go through the list of possible pregnancy symptoms with a fine-toothed comb, more and more do start popping up, that I actually have experienced:

• Fatigue - more extreme in the first few weeks, better now (just like the books say)
• Sore boobs - again, this is much less over the past few weeks (just like the books say)
• Shrike tells me that my boobs are bigger (bras were already getting snug, so hard to judge)
• I do seem to pee alot.
• And cry alot. Over really stupid stuff. Like anything a little, tiny bit mushy on TV. Or in a song. Or a book. Or my imagination.
• Shrike says I'm little grumpy. (Bitch.)
• I suspect that Peeper may already be eating my brain.
• Maybe, maybe, possibly, my pants might be starting to get a teeny bit snugger in the tummy, at least when I first put them on in the morning.
• And, I suppose all those betas and ultrasounds ought to count for something, huh?

On the other hand: no nausea, no food aversions, no smell-sensitivities, my pants still fit, I could go on and on.

I know, I know, I know that I should count myself very lucky that things have gone so smoothly and been so easy, so far (especially given how damn complicated it was to get pregnant in the first place) and I should apologize to all the pukey pregnant gals out there for not fully appreciating it, but I'd like to think that I'd be a little less crazy (at least about this) if I felt more pregnant.

I know I'm being completely irrational, and that your logical arguments probably will not make me any more secure about Peeper's well-being, but I'd certainly appreciate any stories that anyone might have of a> completely normal, successful, yet primarily asymptomatic in the earlyish stages pregnancies, so I can be reassured that one can feel completely "normal" and still be completely pregnant and / or b> your own ridiculous, irrational pregnancy fears, so that I can feel a little less crazy, in comparison.