My fingers smelled like puke the other day. Like, all day. I washed. I scrubbed under my fingernails. I moisturized with smelly lotion. Nothing helped. Little did I know this was foreshadowing at its finest.
Yesterday morning I woke up after another exceptionally bad night of sleep. Seems the mountains of pillows I have accumulated for my comfort aren't really helping me and are also hindering my cat's ability to sleep with me, which of course, wakes me up all night long. Anyway, I woke up early so that I might take SH to work before heading off to school. I had a doctors appointment later that day and was feeling...I don't know...generous, so I invited SH along (the first he's been invited to). As I'm putting toothpaste on my brush, I feel a wave of nausea. "Oh no" I think "this has to be over". Once the brush touches my teeth, I dry heave exactly three times. Nothing that big, but disturbing none-the-less. Now, if you've never enjoyed the sensation of throwing up with a baby inside of you allow me to explain. It felt like someone kicked my belly up toward my boobs three times in a row. My muscles tightened and that baby FLEW. Crazy.
Well, this morning I wake up and want NOTHING to eat. I mean, absolutely nothing sounded good. After about 40 minutes (way too long to wait, I know) I decide on poached eggs (my new favorite breakfast food), tortillas and beans. As I boil the water, the nausea hits. I take this as a sign my blood sugar is low and, without thinking of its consequences, open the fridge and quickly down 4 swigs of orange juice. I walk out of the kitchen to grab something and feel it hit.
I race to the kitchen sink where I proceed, FOR FIVE MINUTES, to throw up every last trace of acidic orange juice (still cold) and whatever sort of bile I had in there. My eyelids are sweaty, my throat is burning, my stomach hurts from being pressed against the counter, my baby is bouncing away and people that are walking by (we live on the first floor and our windows literally open up to the sidewalk) are pausing outside to stare. I can do nothing but continue until my body is done with whatever it feels offended it so much and then do my best to blow the orange snot out of my nasal cavity before heading off to teach a class.
I thought this shit was over. Brutal!
Ah, the doctor answered all of my questions, so here they are;
1. Yes, fairly close to normal.
2. You can wear your own clothes if you want.
3. I quote "It's not the 50's. We don't shave your privates and put you under. Come as you are."
4. No it is not.
5. I will quote again "You can take it home with you if you want, it's yours."
And I found out I am up 14.4 pounds since when this whole thing began. Making me a very rotund 136.4 pounds. Which sucks but is definitely better than I thought, especially after my eat-a-thon in Chicago.
I made a comment in birthing class the other day (after everyone in the group shared how much they just adore being pregnant) that I hate being huge and groaning when I tie my shoes. The wacky teacher said "Well" in a tone "we don't want skinny pregnant ladies!" All the ladies clucked their tongues and looked shamefully in my direction.
And I thought, this is what people are giving me so much slack over! They think I want to look as though I'm not pregnant. Or stay "skinny" throughout! This is an impossible wish and certainly not mine. My panic about this weight gain comes from what happens AFTER, people. What happens when all of the weight isn't "baby weight" and I'm all of a sudden carrying around 8 pounds of fat more than I did when I became pregnant? What happens when I'm clocking 2 hours of sleep and can't bare to drag my ass to the gym? What happens when I come home to find my jeans don't fit? My arms are flabby? My abs can no longer be seen?? This is my panic. So do I want to gain 30 pounds because that's in the "normal" range? No I certainly do NOT! I want to gain whatever it takes to float this baby around, house this nasty placenta (I may post that pic!) and increase my blood flow plus the weight of my fetus. And that is that. Nothing more. But I will take a little less. I shudder to think how long this is going to take.
Ol' fatty fatty two-by-four...
I forgot to mention this other stupid story in my last post, so here it is.
I went to the gym to swim a few weeks ago and as I was descending the stairs into the pool, a woman of about 20 floated by.
"What are you having? A boy or a girl?"
"We don't know, we want to be surprised."
She let her noodle float away and stood up, very seriously.
"Well, if it's a boy you should name it Brandon."
"That's the name of my boyfriend."
I dropped under the water and swam to the next lane.
Are you kidding me? I've heard some stupid shit since I've been pregnant, but that about tops the list. Name your child after my BOYFRIEND? What!? How does that even make sense!?? Not like, name it Peter so it can have your last name (thank you K). Or, name it after a brave war hero. Name it after my BOYFRIEND?! Jesus CHRIST!
So, we've decided on the boys name. Brandon Alexander Joseph.
After some random chick's boyfriend that I've never met. What a great story for our son to have.