The Second Trimester is a Lying Devil

The second trimester does deliver on its promises.  Sort of.  D has more energy, is eating more regularly, and even, for one hot second, considered turning a kiss into something else.  That was a short second.  But let’s be honest.  All these second trimester promises?  Lies.  Like a pagent mom, the second trimester promises bubbles and bunnies and then delivers the toys you already had at home.  That’s right.  All she got from the second trimester was a tiny bit of what she’d lost.  She didn’t even get all of it.  Just a fragment.  A hint of what was.  A glimpse of what life was like before she started growing a bowling ball.

So I don’t think the second trimester is all moonbeams and light.  She feels better, yes, but she hasn’t turned in to Utera, Supreme Goddess of Pregnancy.

At 22 weeks, we are looking forward to the ultrasound on tomorrow.  I’m half terrified that something won’t be right and half terrified that he’ll flash us his bits and ruin the 4 more months (oh my god, you’ve got to be kidding me… Four?! did I count that right?) I have left to wish he’s a girl.  Let me just apologize for his womb-based gender identity problems right now, in advance.  So really, I’m just terrified and I’ll be happy to have that done with so I can go back to assuming everything is peachy.

I haven’t been this nervous since we showed up in Best Of’s office and he said, “Let’s make a baby.” And then we did.