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....