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April 28

According to the calendar, I am seven weeks, three days pregnant.

According to my blood sugars, I am requiring more insulin all the time. My insulin ratios pretty much dropped to 1:5 across the board as soon as they told me I was pregnant. I monitor my sugars like a hawk. I give myself giant correction boluses post dinner, sort of off the cuff, and nowadays, they are typically keeping my overnight blood sugars steady.

Last week, we went to our infertility office for a vaginal ultrasound, which is standard even for those of us who didn’t conceive (i.e. without IVF) the way we thought we would (i.e., with IVF).

The tech congratulated me for conceiving unexpectedly, and asked when my last menstrual period was, since that’s how they date pregnancies that don’t have an official embryo transfer date.

“Oh, I have that date, but I also have the dates for when I took Clomid, when we actually had sex, and when I had obvious egg white cervical mucous,” I replied confidently. Who are these people who don’t know exactly when they conceive? Clearly I--a veteran of infertility treatments and a woman who keeps track of carb counts and insulin-to-carb ratios—can’t allow that anything can simply “just happen.”

Based on all my conception info, I said that the embryo should be six weeks and three days along.

Based on the ultrasound, the tech told me the embryo—the embryo that she found easily and clearly saw a heart beating strongly—measured six weeks and two days, give or take a day.

Who called it?

The heartbeat was strong at 122, too. And I am NOT carrying twins.

Similar to my pregnancy with Preschooler L, I don’t feel any different. I’ve had no morning sickness, save for one afternoon episode mentioned earlier. I don’t think my boobs are sore. I’ve had no cramps. Except for my new rigor for drinking water and milk instead of diet Coke, and thinking a bit more about dumping Splenda into tea as I treat my current talking-myself-silent-bout of laryngitis, I don’t feel all that different. I ate a mozzarella with capers sandwich last week and only wondered if it was OK halfway through my devouring.

There has only been one obvious outward sign (besides the blood sugar nuttiness) that perhaps I am pregnant after all:

My mom’s friend C., who I saw two weeks ago (i.e., in week five), casually asked my mother if I was pregnant a day after she came to a party at my house.

“Not that I’m aware of,” my mother said. “Why?”

“I can tell from her behind,” C told her.

Uncannily, C. predicted my first pregnancy back in 2006, weeks before we spilled the news to my parents, merely because of what my ass looked like.

I quickly and vehemently told my mother to tell C. to stop the scrutiny.

However, maybe C. is on to some kind of new money-making venture: early pregnancy prediction by tush size.