Twelve Weeks

Twelve weeks is supposedly the big milestone. Three months. The end of the first trimester. The baby is now much more likely to stick. The placenta has taken over from the corpus luteum and the baby is now semi-autonomous. So just to remind me that I'm pregnant, today I've been hit by a return of the nausea and new levels of vagueness and exhaustion. I had to wimp out of teaching a class of first years how to make beds because I felt faint. It's actually quite embarrassing, but luckily my boss is very sweet. I hope she is still sweet when she interviews me for that promotion.
This evening Matt moved in his DVD collection. It's huge and diverse and probably going to be my best friend in the next six months. He didn't seem very pleased with Bruce, though. Bruce is my new huntsman. He lives on the cornicing in the living room and we're happily cohabiting, mainly 'cos he's only small and too high to reach with a swat. I think he's growing quite fast, which may mean he's eating cockroaches. I am pleased with the idea that he may be eating the cockroaches, because the venues fly trap appears to be a vegetarian.
I've been reading "The Story of V" by Catherine Blackledge, which is a sort of a social, anthropological and zoological history of the vagina. It's fascinating and, I think, has gone some way to explaining my pregnancy. It seems it's not entirely my fault for being absent minded and careless. There are a whole range of chemicals and muscles and crypts and hormones and sexual techniques and histocompatibility and stuff that all orchestrated themselves to caused me to ovulate. Histocompatibility explains a lot.