The worst part of the first trimester is that you’re not supposed to tell anyone. So you suffer in silence and everyone just assumes you’ve morphed into a chubby, moody, greasy, acne-ridden bitch squad for no good reason.
All you have is the bloke who knocked you up in the first place and that’s a recipe for marital bliss right there.
I didn’t want you to miss out on the horror joy of my first 12 weeks, so I’ve been keeping a diary to keep you up to date.
You’re welcome.
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