Considering how much of my mental activity is taken up with being pregnant, it is a surprise to me that no one knows about it unless I tell them. They might think I look tired, or ill, or that my skin sure doesn’t look as good as usual, or that my hair seems to need washing, but they don’t know I’m pregnant. My own husband wouldn’t know, if I hadn’t told him.

That is one of the satisfactions of early pregnancy, and also one of the things that makes the information difficult to incorporate. It is pleasing, walking around with that “I’ve got a secret” feeling. I know I’m pregnant, but the clerk at the grocery store doesn’t. I know I’m pregnant, but the old woman who just said, “FOUR children? I can’t imagine!” doesn’t. I can still sleep on my tum if I want to, or I can lie on my back. I can sit normally in a chair. I’m wearing my “fat pants,” but other than that I’m in regular clothes.

But it is hard to accept the realness of the situation, when everything seems the same. I don’t look pregnant. I don’t feel pregnant. I feel like I have stomach flu. I can leaf through The Baby Name Wizard a million times, but I’m looking at names for a theoretical baby, not one who will actually be here next year.