The first 3 months of pregnancy are terrifying. They just are. There’s something about carrying such a precious pearl around in a vessel that a) doesn’t close, and b) is subject to some degree of rough and tumble, that makes it all quite anxiety-ridden.

I was scared the tiny little thing wouldn’t be able to hang on. And I was scared that my period, which had always been a tsunami of cramps and bleeding anyway, would be stronger than this new little poppyseed-sized life growing inside me.

On top of all that, I worried about the things that can go wrong.

The things that (thanks to the Internet!!) mostly you never heard of until you became pregnant.

Ectopic pregnancy (My earliest Google obsession. I had a pain in my side!). Miscarriage (so common!). Placenta problems (previa? placement?).  Miscarriage. Implantation problems. Miscarriage. Spotting. Miscarriage, cramps, and miscarriage.

Thankfully I was one of the lucky people who had lots of spotting that turned out to be nothing wrong. But at the time, believe me, I thought the worst. And I Googled every goddamn thing I could think of. The color of the spotting, the frequency, the timing, the meaning of ev.er.y.thin.g. Safe to say I wanted this baby, and I somehow felt safer if I was googling 24 hours a day. Arming myself with information.

Now that I’m in my 8th month, I don’t have as much fever about everything. I feel her, my little one, moving and grooving along with me in the various stages of my day, and I know she’s going to be fine. What a miracle.

In the past I may have been a careless person in some ways, drinking too much at times, certainly not airing on the side of caution. But as my pregnancy progressed, it’s like I became better and better at being gentle and careful and not overdoing it. My body became her vessel. If I had my time back I don’t think I’d change a thing.

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