After eight months of baby-making practice, lots of tantrums, even more tears and a hell of a lot of negative pregnancy tests, I’M PREGNANT!
*Insert olive-sized baby fist pumping in my tummy here*
Am I apparently in the clear and past the sacred 12-week mark?
No. Today I am nine weeks pregnant, and here’s why I’m announcing it early…
I was recently brought to tears by a dear friend of mine; a girl I’d easily call one of my best friends. She was the first person – even before my husband – to know that I was pregnant (live streaming on Snapchat so she could reassure me there was a second line) and I confided in her about my crazy idea to announce my pregnancy to the world earlier than the ‘norm’.
She said, “YES! My family and friends all knew I was pregnant as soon as I pissed on the stick because of the shitty time I went through alone the two miscarriages before.
“I suppose, having been through it twice now, I told everyone I was pregnant very early purely because of the support I NEEDED. It’s fucking lonely and it’s heartbreaking… trying to pretend you were never pregnant.
“I wish I followed someone like you when I was going through it all so I didn’t just feel the need to shut it off.”
That was it. I already knew I wanted to do it. She’d reassured me that I needed to do this.
A crazy idea in some ways. But is it really that crazy? Societal norms prevent us from freely announcing pregnancy until after the 12-week mark. Yet, my daily life revolves around sharing incredibly intimate details of my world. I share sometimes up to five photos a day across my public Instagram and Facebook, and I generally have a Snapchat story running of my entire day. Some would suggest I possibly overshare. Yet, the beautiful thing about it is that I’m the only one who gets to dictate what I think is an appropriate amount of information to give out.