It's that weird limbo between having finally seen your baby dance on the fuzzy screen to being able to actually feel it swimming around inside. You don't look pregnant per se, more like someone who ate all the pies. Depressingly it is back to the waiting game, 170 odd days to go before we get the meet the little sproglett and despite it being fairly quiet in the womb area someone forgot to tell the hormones.
They are partying like 90s kids on speed. It goes up and oh my it comes back down. I just had my feelings bruised in a light hearted fashion over dinner and I am not entirely sure when the floodgates will close again. The tears just keep on coming. It seems a little pointless to say to the dearly beloved that I'm fine when rivers are running down my face and the snot volcano just exploded.
For a grasshopper whose existence is lightly sprinkled with flakes of depression from time to time anyway this raging roller coaster of hormones makes those flakes blizzard like. Some days the fight is on to get out of bed, I wrestle with the concept of showers and toothpaste, getting dressed becomes an unconquerable colossus and the very idea that something might be achieved in those daylight hours is beyond laughable.
It will pass and the world will once more rotate within its expected rotation instead of grinding to a halt or spinning with wild abandon but until then I'll just keep that mountain of tissues handy and try not to lose the entire plot within the egg aisle of Tesco.