I've been away.
I spent last week in Spain which was perfect timing, not least because the UK hasn't worked out that it should be spring so is doing a pitch perfect impression of Narnia during the White Witch's reign.
I hadn't been sure if my crippled nipples were a result of the freeze causing them to implode or the pregnancy sharpening them up ready for a sucky little mouth. Judging by how much they continued hurt even when warm I am guessing the latter.
My morning sickness however has been clearly affected by the cold and early mornings, as for three days in a row whilst on holiday I wasn't sick. Coming back yesterday after getting up at sparrow-fart o'clock to get to the plane it struck back with vengeance, on the plane, train and taxi. Luckily I'd stocked up on sick bags on the plane. EasyJet paper puke bags for the win!
The best moment happened on Friday.
I hadn't quite been sure whether I'd felt the baby move previously. You know when someone starts talking about nits, or fleas, or Piers Morgan and you start to itch? Well, I wasn't sure if the sensations I thought I was feeling were actual movements or a manifestation of my hopes. I knew what I was supposed to be looking out for - something like bubbles or butterflies in my uterus. Or maybe something that could be mistaken for indigestion.
Instead, on Friday night, I felt something more akin to tectonic plate movements in my uterus. A huge shift of something. And that something, I am guessing, was Doug making it's presence known.
I hope to see a bit more of Doug soon, on Thursday, I have a 20 week scan - after which I can start to refer to her or him rather than it. Which is nice.