From the very start, Clive was different.
His was the pregnancy I discovered the earliest. While with Ephraim’s pregnancy I was in denial for at least a week before finally caving and taking a test, with Clive I was immediately suspicious that something was up.
For one thing, Ephraim quit nursing the week I conceived. He simply refused to do it. He was nine months old, and while we rallied somewhat and would eventually make it to twelve months breastfeeding, those last three months were a power struggle. I believe we both breathed a sigh of relief when we were done.
There were a couple of other factors that led me to take a test. Almost immediately a faint positive appeared–and I wasn’t even four week pregnant yet. I went to the doctor and was given a prescription for my low progesterone. I assume this is what went wrong with my first pregnancy that was lost to miscarriage.
I was so busy with Ephraim that I remember little of the first few months of Clive’s pregnancy. I remember being easily angered. I remember my morning sickness starting on Christmas Day, when my aunt had made two lovely soups for lunch and I couldn’t eat either of them. I remember wondering if I should worry and then just not really ever worrying because I never got around to it.