Week 9 and nothing much is happening. After the initial shock/ excitement, it seems to be all about just getting on with it. Through the nausea, through the exhaustion, through the sore boobs.

More and more people are finding out. Slowly, but surely. Of course, I want to tell everyone, but it's early days yet.

As usual, M is being a super star and dealing pretty well with my sleepy/ sick/ sore crankiness. He's starting to worry about friends for our baby. Cute! He's thinking of friends to invite to Nairobi (to move and start a new life) and new friends here with kids. Wee lamb.

Is this where the maternal guilt starts? Wondering if any health problem/ lack of sportiness/ Einstein-like smarts was due to that bumpy car ride/ sneaky Snickers bar during your 8th/ 15th/ 34th week?

These Pregnacare tablets are the size of a house. With my natural aversion/ inability to swallowing tablets, distaste of the bitter flavour of the capsule contents (yes, I open them and stir the powder into juice) and general early pregnancy memery (yes, I did lock M outside on the balcony by accident), I keep forgetting to take these tablets. D'oh!

And food just doesn't like me. I'm on mashed potato, cheese, ginger ale and junk... Doritos, Pringles, Irn Bru, Wham Bars... Things I haven't eaten for a long, long time and normally happily avoid.

Help! I'm bombarded with 'your baby's brain/ important organs are developing at this stage'. No pressure to be uber-nutritious, eh?

The shell-shock is wearing off. Slowly, but surely. The panic is also dissipating thanks to finally sharing our news - and my fears with some very good friends (2 also pregnant and 1 with 2 cute boys).

I'm still confused that God, Mother Nature, whoever, would let the two of us become parents. We can barely look after ourselves... We're in debt. I have no job. We know NO ONE in this new place. D'oh.

There is a 2/3 year-old who lives in our building. It's 8 floors with no lift (not looking forward to the later months even if we're only on the 4th floor). This poor kid lives above us somewhere and HATES walking up the stairs. Every day he has a tantrum as his mother tries to convince him that it's the only way to get home. This boy SCREAMS his head off. One day, his poor mother had clearly had enough and left him on the stairs - outside our apartment - to cry/ scream/ stamp his feet. M was not amused. He opened the door and told him to 'go cry somewhere else'. We could hear the sniffling getting quieter and quieter. Oops.

I'm feeling very, very sick today. Even eating my favourite strawberry jam and cheddar cheese on toast with ginger beer isn't working. Sniff.