Week 12

Warning: discussion of morning sickness ahead.

My obstetrician says I’m in week 10, going into week 11. What To Expect’s website does their math differently and says I’m at the end of week 11, starting week 12. I vastly prefer What To Expect’s calculations because it means I’m THAT MUCH CLOSER to be done with the first f***ing trimester.

There is a lot of crying, mostly in tandem with being sick. Many women do pregnancy well, and I salute them. For a while I took comfort in my sister’s experience because she was much sicker than I have been and she was a trooper about it. But now I’ve hit her level of discomfort, and nothing stays down and every strong odor triggers my gag reflex and my breath is horrible because the taste and texture of toothpaste is enough to make me gag. I buy ice by the seven pound bag and eat ice chips and crackers all day, mostly just to give me something beside stomach acid to expel. It’s difficult to reconcile wanting a baby and being excited to have one with feeling so miserable from actually being pregnant. One thing that makes me feel better is imagining the fun things we’ll do with the baby once it’s here, and I have to keep that at the forefront of my mind to keep from curling up into a ball of self pity. I also have to think of that to keep from roundhouse-kicking those who point out the sucky aspects of newborns. I lived through Baby Boot Camp with my sister, I know the highs and the lows, and I would be happy to bury my heel in the face of anyone who doesn’t have EXTREMELY GOOD THINGS TO SAY ABOUT BABIES to me.

Anyway. Where was I? Ah, yes, babies and rainbows and nausea.

It may be normal, this constant nausea. But I think it’s safe to say that the idea I once had that we’d have four children has been put to rest because when I think of being pregnant more than once, I ask Tom to hit me over the head with a hardback copy of The Stand. FOUR TIMES? Was I HIGH when I thought that was a good idea? And then I think about my worry about six weeks ago when I was bursting with energy and didn’t feel sick at all and was worried that meant I would miscarry. And then I laugh bitterly over my cup of ice chips.

Ending on a note of levity, I had to laugh when I realized the one liquid (besides half-melted ice water) that soothes my stomach is none other than Perrier. Not juice (my God, orange juice is of the devil), not Vitamin Water, not sugary seltzers (not a Poland Spring bottle for 5000 miles), and only occasionally Powerade or Gatorade. Now, my father has always called me his “expensive” child, and I guess he’s right. Went to a high-falutin’ private university, the only sport I’ve ever been good at is skiing, and most of my hobbies revolve around nice wines and technological gadgetry. We don’t live beyond our means and we adhere to a strict budget, but I guess you could say I tend to have expensive tastes.

So, I hope my father is as amused as I am by the fact that his unborn grandchild is only satisfied by imported French mineral water. What goes around comes around. Thank heavens it’s sold in bulk at Costco.