I found out I was actually 13 weeks pregnant? Remember how it was the best news a pregnant lady could hear (other than “Your baby is a healthy, amazing specimen,” of course)?
I found out at my 17 week doctor’s visit last week that I was actually only 16 weeks. The 12-week ultrasound is apparently notorious for adding an extra five days or so to the wee one’s age, which I sort of knew from browsing the information superhighway but was sort of in denial of.
So: here I am at seventeen weeks and two days. Again.
My "due date" is back to April 21st.
The good news is that apparently for a second pregnancy, one is allowed to be induced at 39 weeks instead of 41-42, so if I'm feeling desperate, there are options. The less good news is that I'm already sick of photographing my less-than-beautiful-feeling self every week—and there are still 23 (or 22) weeks to go. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate being pregnant? I'm lucky and blessed and believe you me, I'm very excited for the little guy (or girl) already kicking me in the ribs—but still, I hate being pregnant.