The foetus wants pancakes

I discovered, with a certain amount of hesitation and excitement, that I am actually not seven weeks but nine weeks pregnant.

I hadn't trusted the doctor's assessment that I was further on than I was due to a mumbled discription of the first day of my last period, as he also predicted I was due in early October. The midwife had just looked at my notes and scribbled something down. I just relied on guess work and numerous dodgy online calculator predictor things.

But, apparently, its true. 40 weeks starts from the first day of my last period. I am in my nineth week of pregnancy. Woop woop!

My good friend Yorkshire Lass negotiated a whole heap of public transport to come and visit my messy self on Saturday. She told me repeatedly that I personally didn't have any control over the goings on and had basically been consumed by an alien, who had comandeered my body for its own use. It was to be in control now, of whatever it decreed suitable. Sleep, food, rest, (and, in my case, TV and music, for I have now developed an uncontrollable desire to watch Red Dwarf and listen to Cats).

She was immensely understanding, even through my constant cracker grazing, my whining about my sickness, my troubled, guilt ridden mind and my chocolate cake baking indulgant (one vegan cake later, and after a small piece on Saturday night, I had to pass the majority over to her, the sight or even thought of chocolate making me feel a little bit on the queasy side).

Last night I had a strong urge to make pancakes today with my sister (I won't dwell on this for too long as pancake isn't a food I can negotiate discussion with at this time of the morning). Yorkshire Lass called me to make sure I was still vaguely hinged (after a few slightly worrying emails I had sent to her throughout the course of yesterday) and I informed her of my desire.

She said simply 'the foetus wants pancakes'.

And I thought, yup. Okay. I'm going to go with this one.

Right now, the foetus wants some jam on toast, even post breakfast. I need to seriously adjust my portion size if grazing is going to keep me sane (and from doing and work it seems).

Oddly, I realised after attempting two scales, I have actually lost 4lb since becoming pregnant and weigh now just under eight stone. This was a rather terrifying realisation as my breasts are growing at quite a rate and my stomach is inflating at a similar worrying speed until I realised with terror and horror that all those months of hard work, muscle control and toning are unravelling before my eyes.

My muscle is turning to fat.

Oh bugger it, a piece of toast and jam isn't going to make much of a dent on my unravelling body now (I can hear the voice of weight watchers all over the country screaming that it will be my downfall).