Or, in my case, all the fucking time sickness.
8.5 weeks gestation and all I can think is that this better end soon because I really want some ice cream.
The doctor gave me some tablets to take that will (hopefully) help. I was excited thinking I might get to eat dinner and not have a post-meal chinwag with the porcelain.
It was an awesome theory. Until the doc mentioned that I take this tablet 20mins before bed and I should be feeling better in a couple of days.
Arsehole.
I'm hungry, cranky and nauseated. Telling me that I need to wait another 48 hours or so for a chance to eat without hurling makes me stabby. And more hungry.
I've tried it all - ginger, dry toast, grated apple, pears, watermelon, flat lemonade, weak cordial. None of it helps. And it makes me cry.
I cry harder when I have Miss 3 sitting in the hallway outside the toilet, watching me, and I listen to her blow by blow commentary to the crowd of stuffed animals she's gathered for the performance. I always stare back at those bears and think how lucky those little bastards are with their lack of stomach content.
Fully aware of the 'just be grateful you're pregnant' band, I would like to clarify that I am NOT saying this isn't worth it, and I'm NOT saying that I am ungrateful for this chance. What I AM saying is that emptying my stomach contents into the loo on a regular basis is not one of my favourite activities and I will be glad when this stage has passed.
Besides, the last time I checked, they didn't stop drinking or whinging when they passed out in front of Uncle Sam's and spewed all over themselves.
Sorry, that was the
I suppose the bonus is that I have been able to watch all the trashy TV I usually miss by going to work. Admittedly I booked annual leave for another purpose, but watching TV was always part of the plan. And it means that when The Man gets home there's no judgement for me being in the same position on the couch as when he left that morning.
Sure, Miss 3 has destroyed the house, the dishes are still in the sink and I may or may not have forgotten to round up the chickens so they don't shit on his pristine deck, but I manage to move as little as possible unless I'm running to a meeting with the Thunderbox. And that takes serious skill and a serious lack of parenting.
Oh yeah, I am winning all kinds of awards this week. My mother would be
So here's to the hormones that are making me sick as a dog just for the priviledge of having a baby. Some may think I'm an ungrateful whinger, but if they don't like it I'm more than happy to go around and spew on their doorstep.
A special gift to remind them never to piss me off when I'm pregnant.
