Here I am on the day after Thanksgiving, at work, like a schmuck. Chris was off today and wanted to get up early again, like last year, and try to score some doorbusters at the sales, but ultimately decided against it when he couldn't get excited enough over any of the ads. Plus, you really have to be one of those wackos who starts lining up at five o'clock the night before to really snatch any of the stellar deals. And those people are crazy. Also, maybe it's just because they've been awake for 24 hours and have been up all night without the luxury of a toothbrush or bath tub, but, looking at the photos in the paper the next day of these people fighting over a widescreen TV, they're usually not an especially attractive bunch. You never see a slender, super-model type woman in a nice outfit clammering for the discount DVD player. I could expand from here, but now that I'm with child, I'm trying to be a nicer person.

So, my mother pleasantly surprised me yesterday by being thrilled to find out the news. She even threatened- I mean, offered- to move in with me after the baby is born for a bit to help out with things. I don't think that will be at all necessary, but still- a surprisingly thoughtful gesture. Who knew.

My mother has a new, boring nickname for Chris. CB. I told you it was boring. But she's obsessed with calling him that, and, now, in general, she's just plain obsessed with nicknames. Which leads me to a classic Nancy quote that I heard yesterday.

Black Wednesday. It's the night before Thanksgiving when young people go out, have some drinks with their friends, and call each other by nicknames.

I hope you think that's as hilarious as I do.

Finally had my first doctor's appointment. I left feeling as if the doctor didn't give me a whole lot of detail or instruction, but I guess the major items on the agenda were accomplished. Yes, I'm most definitely pregnant. I'm due July 9th. And I had my first ultrasound and got to see the beating heart of my child.

Here's the thing about the ultrasound, though. Every time I've seen somebody get an ultrasound (I'm talking TV and movies, of course), it's involved a squirt of jelly on the tummy and then something that looks like a Target price scanner being rolled around atop the tummy surface, with the image being projected on the monitor. Granted, I got the image on the monitor- the kid looks just like me, might I add- and, yes, there was some sort of jelly lubrication substance, but- get ready for this- the ultrasound was performed not with the Target price scanner on the belly but via a device stuck up my hoo-ha. Imagine my surprise when the doctor says that it's time for the ultrasound and inserts the thing while I'm getting ready to open my napkin gown to expose my stomach. A little warning might have been nice. I got over my shock pretty quickly, though, when the screen was tilted at my face and there she/he was, beating magically away.

So, tomorrow we're telling our parents, probably both sets if we can make it to both T-day gatherings. I shudder to think of telling my mother. If you've ever met my mother, you are likely feeling my pain right now. As an example of how she generally takes good news, when I called so many years ago to say that Chris and I were engaged, her reaction was to sharply intake her breath and ask, "Are you sure you want to do that?" So, I'm expecting something very similar tomorrow. Actually, I'm putting money on her asking me whether or not this was an accident. And then mentioning something about the financial burden this baby will cause. There, fifty dollars. Anyone want to take the bet?

I wish I had something else to blog about other than this, but life has been pretty dull otherwise. And nothing else seems all that consequential. I suppose I just have to wait for the wonder and awe of this to wear off and then I can go back to issuing clever observations. Tell me- when does the wonder and awe wear off exactly?

That's what I thought.

I think it's horseshit that the doctor won't see me until eight weeks. Today it is six weeks, and I don't know how the heck I'm supposed to wait until my appointment to get all this stuff confirmed. I will not rest until I'm told that all is well. And not by a dear, well-meaning friend trying to blindly soothe me, but by an aloof, overpaid professional with a clipboard.

The biggest symptom I have right now relate to my boobies. They're sore and expanding. I wonder how big they'll end up getting. I might very well find myself graduating from my embarrasingly cavernous A cup into a nice, more age-appropriate B. Won't that be a blast. Oh, the things I'll do with my new breasts. I will definitely have to adjust my wardrobe in order to highlight these girls. I've gone my whole life down-playing my chest area. Look out, world- I'm about to redefine "poor taste" with all of the cleavage bearing outfits I've begun to dream up.

The second biggest symptom (hey, are you still reading this?) has been exhaustion. God damn, am I tired. I can barely keep my eyes open throughout the day, and yesterday I found myself slipping out of the office and taking a nap in my car around two-thirty, just so I could get through the remainder of the afternoon. I've been in bed ridiculously early every night, and on Wednesday, I almost fell asleep while eating dinner. That's the sleepiest I've ever been while stuffing a meatball in my face.

I don't know. This whole thing is bananas. I'm so anxious to find out everything is okay. Have I mentioned how the eight week wait is horseshit?

In other baby-related news (I know, I can't imagine how boring this is for everyone else), my coworker G, who I truly love like a brother, asked me the other day why I hadn't been haven't been smoking anymore. I said, "I quit for good." He asked if there was a reason, and I said no. Then he said, "I thought maybe you were pregnant or something." So, I told him, "Actually, yes, but it's a secret, I haven't even been to the doctor, so keep your mouth shut." Long long pause. And G, who's been married for eight years to a woman who is 39 to his 34, a man who I have relentlessly teased about having to get a move on with the whole baby thing, said, his face a shade of red, "Actually. M's pregnant, too. I haven't told anyone. She's six weeks."

And I am so unbelievably happy for them. I can't even explain how overwhelmed with emotion I feel, and how fricking honored I am to be the first one he's told. Although, can I just say, G told me that they nailed down the day that he and M had conceived, and it's pretty much the same day that I would have. That's creepy. Kind of nice that we'll both have kiddies around the same time, but, man. Creepy.

M already had two doctor's visits and an ultrasound, and she's six weeks, too. Horseshit. Perhaps they're more on top of this process when you're 39 versus 29, but, man, could I use a little reassurance. All in due time. Patience, patience, patience....

So, I'm pregnant. I guess I feel comfortable broadcasting it on my blog because the people that I am currently hiding it from- the family, the co-workers, etc- don't know that Under My Thumb exists. I'm barely pregnant. I'll be six weeks on Friday. I have my doctor's appointment the day before Thanksgiving. Maybe the doctor will look at me with a cocked eyebrow and say, "Yeah, what? You're totally not. Get out of my office and stop wasting my time." And I will shamefully close my legs, take off my paper gown, and haphazardly throw on my clothes through a hot blur of tears and nausea.

I know you're not supposed to tell people this early, but I haven't been able to refrain from telling it to a select few. I'm so terrified that I'm jinxing this whole thing by opening my big fat mouth, but then I thought- what if something did happen? Wouldn't I want the support of my friends? Wouldn't I maybe want to write a blog entry about it? So here I am, like a jackass.

I want to remember how this feels- how it alternates between excitement, horror, and nothingness at all. How giving up alcohol and coffee and my few cigarettes here and there has been nothing short of heartbreaking. How I am sometimes fearful because I don't feel like I am "glowing" like I should be. How I can't even believe that I have a person inside of me, at least a speck of a person, who could grow up to be any number of things, equally awesome and awful. The power is ridiculous. It's unfathomable, really.

The funny thing is that my neighbor, Heather, is pregnant, too. She's three weeks ahead of me. It's so wierd, like maybe part of a master plan. That our kids will be the same age and can maybe grow up together. Chris, however, seems to think that her kid is going to pick on our kid, that we are fated to have a shy, nerdy child who gets teased and bullied and picked on to no end. He's probably right. But wouldn't it be something if our child was the bully, the little terror, the monster of the neighborhood? What would we even do, I wonder? We're not equipped to deal with such things. We're non-confrontational, we like to do our teasing behind people's backs, not to their faces.

Who knows. Who knows anything. I will tell you one thing, though. My dad knows. He doesn't actually know, he hasn't actually been told, but we visited my parents on Saturday and he stared at me for a long time before finally saying, "You look different." He wouldn't let it drop. I looked different, prettier somehow. He even said it to my sister after we left. I guess he's got a paternal instinct about these things, a heightened sense due to my mother's lowered sense. My mother, you see, asked me on the same visit how old I am, if I was 31 or 32. I'm 29. The damn woman gave birth to me a very specific number of years ago and has no idea how long ago that was. I don't want to be a mother who can't remember how old her kids are. If there's one thing that I'll ask for now, aside from a safe and healthy pregnancy and child, it'll be that, when I'm a mother, I'm not a moron.