Week 8 wasn’t as bad as the others. Either my symptoms were starting to subside, or I was getting used to feeling like a used dishrag.
My best friend invited me out to her end of the East Coast during my 9th week. I wasn’t sure about flying, frankly because I Googled it. (I think if you learn nothing else from this blog, it should be to ban Google from your life unless it’s to check your email or map out the quickest route to ice cream.) Can the pressure in the plane squish the baby? Is there some sort of radiation or rays or waves that float around in a plane that cause brain damage? Could the lack of oxygen cause the baby to tug on its umbilical chord in search of that oxygen mask that drops from the ceiling of my uterus? I asked my doctor who told me the only risk was me puking on a fellow passenger. This seemed almost as bad as the squishing and the tugging. I decided to do something I often do when I'm pregnant and I’m not sure what the right choice is: I leave it up to chance. I set up some ridiculous “if…then…” scenario in my brain and decide that then and ONLY then will I agree to fly. This time, I decided that if my baby didn’t wiggle during the next ultrasound, which would be almost 9 weeks, I wasn’t going to see my friend. Of course, this made perfect sense to only me, but during the first trimester there’s really no point in trying to reason with a pregnant woman. Even if you're trying to reason with yourself and you are the pregnant woman in question.
I headed to my ultrasound. You can guess whether or not I decided to go...
After seeing this, David and I walked around the house for the next week doing the "Baby Dance". It's slow, and mostly involves swaying your hips back and forth with a little smile on your face.