She has a wee belly you know.
Not much, and no one other than us would ever notice. We know that all it really is is a little swelling or bloating, but that doesn't seem to matter. It's so much more than that.
It really is one of the nicest sites you could ever see.
Speaking of which, in a couple of days we hope to see an even better one. On Friday we have our first scan, 7 weeks and 5 days into the pregnancy.
The as of yet unnamed bugger has now turned from an embryo into a foetus, (or a fetus, if you like to spare vowels,) its nervous system is developing rapidly, including its brain, and wee eyes are starting to show under its skin.
Last week's bud-limbs are growing still and looking more like real arms and legs. It might wave.
All this is happening, we are certain of it, ET is tired on and off, she has turned from some foods, and there's breast activity going on that can only be described as a very fitting tribute to the late Farrah Fawcett.
We have nothing but positive signs, no reason to think anything is other than perfectly fine, and we are very content with the idea of the wee thing being tucked up nice and safe in its bedwomb.
Still, in the corner of my mind somewhere there is a pinhole sized fear, so atomic, so magnetic, so concentrated, and potentially full of horrors that I can't bring myself to think of.
I don't know why it's there, there is no reason for it. None whatsoever.
Then why is it there?
Roll on Friday.