By now, most of you know that I am not a big fan of pregnancy. Let me rephrase that—While we are super duper excited (with vanilla and a cherry on top) to add another kiddo to the party pack, I do not enjoy how the presence of a human being in my uterus makes me feel for 9+ months.
I just don't.
For the past few weeks, I have been miserable. And Brian can attest, because it's likely I'm making him quite miserable, too. My energy has been zapped. Nausea in the morning. Headaches all afternoon. In bed by 8pm. Back pain. Sciatic never pain. Constant metallic taste in the back of my throat. I mean, seriously, try concentrating at work when it feels like you just downed 13 pennies.
Sounds like a Tosh.0 video challenge.
About six weeks ago, I felt like an invisible person was sticking the middle of my back with his little invisible hot poker. It really, really hurt. So I went to the hospital for a really fun ultrasound of my innards. I couldn't eat or drink for eight hours prior, and that in itself is a dreadful feat for a typically pigging-out preggo lady. But when I got to the waiting room, they didn't have my paperwork from my doctor, so I had to wait an extra hour and a half. Oh yeah, this hormonal girl 'bout went crazy up in Riverside Methodist Hospital. I think my eyes turned red. Red, I tell you. And they bled scarlet tears of hunger and fury.
And so... the testing found nothing. "It's just your hormones, honey!" said the doctor. Oh trust me, Captain Obvious, I'm blaming everything on those hellacious hormones right now, don't you worry.
Including eating. Ain't no eating like a preggo mom eating and this preggo mom eating can't stop. This kid is already eating me out of house and home and car and Target. I just spent $9 at Einstein's. At 3:30 in the afternoon. I got a bagel sandwich, milk and chips. This is in addition to the following already consumed today: Cereal, cottage cheese, a granola bar, a pack of instant oatmeal, almonds, a cheese stick, a banana, carrots, a tuna sandwich on wheat, pretzels, a cookie and some chocolate Teddy Grahams. Let's see if I can pack in about 1,000 more calories before the day is over. You know, the baby needs it.
Honestly, I don't think raising a kid is tough. But growing one? It's a nightmare. And yes, I know there are so many women out there who love being pregnant—they relish the time and wouldn't mind doing it 10 times over if they could. They enjoy it...they actually love it. And I'm dumbfounded.
And jealous. Maybe they just have easier pregnancies? Or maybe mine are just worse than your average bear's?
Nope and nope. You see, I do actually realize the simple truth of the matter—I'm a yellow-bellied baby-carrier. And I just need to tough it out for seven more months. (tear - clear this time)