You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Average Preggo’ category.

I know it’s really unpopular to call to the carpet other people’s parenting choices.  I know you know I don’t give two shits about what is or is not popular.  I will lay out this disclaimer, though: I am not immune to criticism.  I make choices that I am ready to defend at all times.  I think that’s a healthy way not to follow the lemmings off the cliff.  If this post pisses you off enough that you want to have an epic comments throw down, you’re more than welcome, but do me a favor and spare me the “I’ve been a parent for 872 times longer and so I must be right” crap, ok?  Kill me with your rapier wit instead.

Moving on …

I have figured out the source of all that is wrong in the world.  Why are people so rude and impatient?  Why are we so demanding?  Why must we have instant gratification?

Designer Parenting.

That’s my buzz word for the day to mean what I really want to call Selfish Parenting.  It’s the self-centered need to control all things pregnancy, baby, and child in such a way as to not be uncomfortable, unhappy, or inconvenienced by the process and it’s driving me frickin’ crazy.


Tired of being pregnant?  Want to have the baby on a Monday?  Unhappy at the prospect of waiting around for a month surrounding your due date unsure as to when the big moment is coming?  Scared of your water breaking on your fancy schmancy duvet cover?

Schedule an induction, duh.  Who needs nature or biology or a couple million years of historical proof that babies come when they’re supposed to when you could pull our your Franklin planner and squeeze in that baby between the end of your Pilates class and the beginning of the ‘spring busy season’ at The Club?


Afraid of what nursing will do to your breasts?  Unhappy at the prospect of being at the beck and call of your newborn every hour of every day from now until his first birthday?  Ready for someone else to ‘take over’ the night time responsibilities?

Crack open that “free gift” (by which they really mean “free marketing tool designed to undermine your breastfeeding relationship”) of formula and do it to it.  Who cares about nutrition and biology (theme?)?  It’s your choice you’ll tell those who look at you critically.  You tried and it didn’t work you’ll tell yourself.  Let’s be honest, though … you didn’t want to nurse that baby in the first place.  Well, you did, until you realized it means you have to be ready to whip out your breasts every minute of every day for the next 52 weeks.  It sounds fun and all until you’re 2 weeks in with cracked nipples that haven’t gone 3 hours without someone’s mouth on them.  Then it’s no longer convenient.

SIDE BAR:  There really are some women who cannot for some physical reason breastfeed their child.  I confess that mine will not actually nurse, but be damned she still gets breastmilk because I pump constantly and bottle feed her instead every. single. time.  To those of you who cannot breastfeed because your boobs are broken, at ease.  I’m not pointing fingers at you.  You don’t have to make excuses.  It’s the ones with excuses that should check themselves.


So your baby likes to be held.  She falls asleep in your arms and you wait and wait and just as you sit her down, she’s awake again (and screaming …).  Are you tired of picking her back up 10 minutes after you put her down?  Are you ready to ‘get back to normal’ and start some kind of ‘routine’ or ‘schedule’?  Does your newborn not know that your time is precious and that you have other things to do than hold her?

Best solution ever?  Sleep training.  Dude.  You put the baby down when you want.  It goes to sleep when you want it to so you have plenty of evening time for important things like dishes, Sudoku, and reruns of America’s Next Top Model.  You deserve a break, right?  The tricky part is when the schedule you want isn’t the one your newborn wants.  Eh, no biggie, just let the kid cry.  It’ll fall asleep eventually, right?

This of course sets aside relatively important ideas like … oh, newborns cannot manipulate you developmentally.  They aren’t smart enough yet to stay awake just to spite you.  Oh, and babies are programmed to want security that they can largely only understand as physical closeness.  Ooooh, and my favorite … baby brains are not designed to sleep when you want them to.  None of that matters, though.  You’re ‘training’ them, after all.  It must be good for them.


Does your baby insist on eating every 2 hours?  Does it eat and eat and eat some days, seemingly trying to consume as much fluid as humanly possible?  What in the world does that kid need with that much food when it’s just going to make wet diapers out of it anyway?  How on Earth do you get your kid to go longer between meals like you do?

Solids!  Yes!  Load up that bottle with cereal, puree some avocados, get out the baby spoons.  Clearly if it just keeps eating it must need something to make it feel full for longer.  Ignore the part where your kid is 4 weeks old.  Who cares about the risk of allergies or choking?  Toss out the reality that most of the remaining traditional societies as well as your great-great grandmother would think you’re c-r-azy.  You don’t have time for feeding this kid all the time.   You have important things to do.


All of these relatively popular occurrences point to an ongoing problem on a societal level.  We are go-go-go-now-now-now kinds of people.  We want to have a perfect pregnancy with a perfect baby who sleeps perfectly and wears cute clothes and never cries long enough for it to stop being adorable and sleeps in a crib in another room so we don’t have to worry about it and who never learns to read radical ass bloggers who say highly unpopular shit in painfully run-on sentences.  We don’t want a mess.  We don’t want a needy baby.  We don’t want to stay in any one developmental stage too long.  We don’t want to be compared unfavorably to other moms with other babies.  We want the new, the now, the hip.  We shrug off the traditional, the practical, and the reality.

Babies are all consuming.  They require 100 percent of you 100 percent of the time unless you’re going to ignore some crucial need in favor of your own gain.  It’s a trade off you have to be ready for, and before I have to hear all about how I think I’m some kind of badass …

I am an imperfect parent.  We all are.  I get pissed off when my kid keeps crying and I don’t know why.  I resent the 83rd time I have to get out of bed in one 2 hour period when she needs nothing more than a hand on her belly to let her know I’m there.  I hate spending 30 minutes out of every 3 hour block attached to a torture device that is slowly destroying my nipples.  This does not at all change the fact that I will continue to get up, grow up, and do it every single day without fail.  I will not stop because life gets uncomfortable or inconvenient and any person with a parenting ‘technique’ or ‘class’ or ‘manual’ that advocates some new ‘method’ or ‘style’ that suggests I should make MY life easier can piss up a rope.

So, yea.  There it is.  Call me judgmental, but I’m pretty positive all of this me-me-me craziness is contributing directly to the decline of social grace.  Don’t get me wrong, I have about a million other ways the world is going to pot, but this one bothers me the most right now because … 1) it’s very much my life every minute of every day, 2) I’m a highly passionate hippie and 3) I read far too many online parenting communities that are full of Designer Parents all seeking validation from others for their terribly selfish choices (ps, if you have to seek validation for what you’re doing, it’s probably the wrong thing … that need for someone else to tell you it’s ok is your brain telling you not to do it … just sayin’).

I don’t ever want to be one of those parents.  I don’t even want to know them, honestly. I should really stop reading their whiny crap online.  I’m certain I can find something better to do with my occasional 10 minute breaks.


(Ohhhh, and remember haters, I have the mystical power of the “Delete Comment” button …)


Helllllllooooo, baby close up.

That’s right, friends, The Squishy has arrived.  Thus far, the world hasn’t come to an end, so I’m hoping my brother’s prediction that I was carrying the Anti-Christ was slightly inaccurate … or at least that we have until she hits puberty.

Ah yes, you heard that correctly.  She.  The Squishy is a baby girl.  Please know that I’m trying to hold back the urge to yak all over the pink explosion that has come to my house.  We intentionally didn’t know the sex of the baby so we could hold off the gendered color coding as long as possible.  That lasted, oh, a day after she was born.  I try to temper all the pepto pink with blue rocket ship crib sheets and Beatles onesies.  Though, I won’t lie, it’s mucho bueno to not have to explain my fascination with putting bows and clips and assorted other accoutrements into this child’s crazy hair.  I’d still totally do it if she were a boy.  I’d just have a lot more ‘splainin’ to do.

So that makes me someone’s mother.  (gag …)  I still can’t say that word out loud.  Remember how long it took me to say the word pregnant out loud?  Yea, same problem with this one.  I am having a terrible time.  I don’t call myself any of those familiar maternal names.  I cringe a little when other people do.  I’m still adjusting to the idea.  I know, I know, I had 9 months (ok, TEN MONTHS!) to get used to the idea, but I never got around to it, ok?  I’m working through it.  Or trying to.

The Squishy has been here almost 3 weeks.  She was born in the early morning on the last day of January, giving her 1/18 due date the proverbial finger.  She weighed in at a perfectly respectable 8lbs, 4.40z rather than the 198lbs the OBs kept predicting.  I was in labor forever, approximately.  I will most certainly regale you of that story in the near future.

In the mean time, I’ll be in and out spending my days surfing my Google Reader from my phone while feeding a hilarious face-making baby at 4am, changing 1 million wet (cloth! duh.) diapers, and trying to acclimate to my new reality.  I’ll be back …



1. Yes, I am still pregnant.  41 weeks, 2 days to be exact.  This makes people uncomfortable for some reason.  People who are not me.  I’m largely unphased by the length of time this kid chooses to incubate.

2. The doctor’s office pisses me off.  Their blatant use of lies, privilege, and fear mongering is disgusting.  That’s the only part of being pregnant this long that I don’t like: fighting with the damn doctor’s office every 3 days.  Last week I just ignored them entirely and hid out like a fugitive.

3. I’m hungry.  Why haven’t I eaten breakfast yet?  Ah yes, because I’m lazy.  Check.

4. I really wanted to experience that ‘nesting’ feeling I hear so much about.  My OCD was shitting golden kittens in excitement about the prospect of unbridled energy devoted to cleaning and organizing like a lunatic.  No. Such. Luck.  Thanks a lot, Universe.

5. That Boy’s job wants to cut his pay by 33-66%.  Uh, yea, that much.  I’m … overjoyed.  Right.  Suffice it to say he’s already looking for something else el pronto.  Not to mention, the hours at this job suck in the worst way.

6. I’m beginning to believe this child is never coming out.  Ever.  I think this kind of irrational thinking is also what happens to serial killers when you leave them in solitary confinement too long.  The crazies just start to creep in when you aren’t looking and before you know it you’re convinced the all kinds of crazy things are up.

7. Did you know they made a pack of Starbursts that only have the red flavors in it?  Uh, yea.  I just heard.  I could dance in the streets about it.  Pink and yellow Starbursts, I have no time for your shenanigans!  Out you go!

8. I’m supposed to work next weekend (3-5 Feb) at a state tournament.  Why? Because I was supposed to have this kid already.  I’m not sure how this is going to play out in the near future.  Shit.  I need to find someone to cover for me.  Good thing I have an assistant … wait … an assistant who already told me he won’t work that weekend.  Double shit.  Uh oh, spaghettio.

9. I got this cool double layer plastic tumbler thing for Christmas from my brother.  Have you seen them?  It doesn’t condensate, had a twist on lid that looks like a fountain pop cup, and a hard plastic use-it-forever straw.  I’m kind of in love with it.  It makes me wish we had a freezer upstairs.  The trek to the basement for ice cubes is generally unappealing to me always.

10. Believe it or not, the constant check-up phone calls, emails, and facey spacey messages have begun to diminish.  I attribute this to either a: people forgetting that I’m possibly still pregnant or b: me scaring them into not bugging with my shitty snark responses over the last couple weeks.  I know B worked on my dad who is now afraid to call me for an update lest he “upset me” which I think is code for “have to listen to me bitch about how I’m not answering anymore damn questions”.  Either way: bonus for me.



My estimated due date is the day after tomorrow.  Right.  While I’m still pregnant and not caught up in the feed me! change me! feed me again! cycle of newborn craziness, I thought I’d empty my brain of the random musings I’ve accumulated in the last 39 weeks and 5 days.  For your reading pleasure (and to assuage my mild need to number everything …), bullet points.

1. I continue to be tragically unexcitable.  I get anxious like a professional, yes, but that anxiety is something entirely different than excitement.  I have not been excited this entire pregnancy.  I am not excited about delivery.  I don’t have some sweet building sense of anticipation about seeing The Squishy in person for the first time.  I’m not unexcited by any means.  I don’t have a sense of impending doom or dread or disdain.  I’m just not dancing in the streets and screaming bloody murder in giddiness.  Pregnancy has yet to transform me into some emotionally uncontrolled quintessentially stoked parent-to-be.  For this I remain eternally grateful.

2. People who are overly excited about this impending delivery creep me out.  No lie.  I know that people love us and are happy for us and all that jibbity jabber, but seriously … their excitement is starting to eat at me a little.  It’s entirely possible that I am a stone cold bitch who just hates the world (except the part where I don’t really hate much of anything …), but I

3. I am not miserable.  At no point have I been anything close to what I would call miserable.  I get asked rather constantly these days if I’m “sooooo ready to be done being pregnant” or if I’m “sooooo unhappy and uncomfortable”.  The answer is no.  It has not ever been yes.  I am slightly uncomfortable sometimes, yes.  It is not that pleasant to walk around feeling like someone put a size 12 steel toe boot to my crotch repeatedly.  I’m slower than usual.  I get frustrated with people chastising me for “doing too much”, and then I regularly plan my day around bringing down everything I need from upstairs in one fell swoop so I don’t have to trek the stairs again.  I am not, however, “miserable”, and I am certainly not bitching to people constantly about it.

4. Throwing up eventually becomes normal.  6 straight months of puking at least once a day apparently a habit does make.  First thought: This sucks.  Second thought: So this is why bulimia is so attractive to people.  It’s way more fun to puke than not eat.

5. I hate people constantly checking up on me.  This has become especially heinous in the last few weeks.  Did I have the baby yet?  Am I in labor?  Do I have any new discharge?  Yea.  I’m not kidding on that last one.  My father asks this regularly and makes me throw up a little in my mouth at the thought of having a conversation about any kind of bodily fluid with anyone, um, ever.  I know there are several hundred reasons why people insist on asking questions every 10 minutes, but it’s highly irritating.  Next time you’re about to check up on a pregnant friend, stop yourself.  Ask how SHE is doing, sure, but stop there.  No one needs the Baby Time Line Police interrogating them every 24 hours like perhaps you’ll deliver this kid in your garage and hide it there under straw bales for a few weeks just to spite them.

6. I still feel like I deserve a role in the next Alien movie every time this kid moves.  I know it’s supposed to be “beautiful” and “special” and 294 other ooey gooey adjectives, but mostly it just gives me the creeps.  Still.

7. The modern obstetrical model is an overly medicalized piece of crap.  I feel like I have an entire other post in me for what my opinion on this entails, but suffice it to say … life is far too simple to be made this fucking complicated.  The fear-mongering does not help.  I promise this is not the last you’ve heard about this.

8. Pregnancy is not a reason to be a demanding, annoying, moody pain in the ass.  Nothing really is.  So you’re growing a human, yes, kudos.  Now please seek out personal validation some other way than by using your current incubator status to be a whine ass who makes unrealistic and unnecessary demands for attention.

9. I’m still not positive what contractions feel like exactly.  I hear all about how you’re supposed to feel your abdomen tighten, but … uh … the odds of my uterus being bad ass enough to tighten my not so svelte exterior are pretty damn slim.  Is it that crampy feeling?  Is it that back achy uncomfortable feeling?  Is it something else entirely I have simply not felt yet at all?  I remain completely in the dark on this.  Someone needs to write “Pregnancy for Fat Girls: A Beginner’s Manual” el pronto.


There are plenty more, friends, but that will have to suffice for tonight.  The next time you hear from me I might officially be someone’s mother (how terrifying is that shit?).  Or not.  I have no idea.  It could be tonight.  It could be next month.  We’ll just have to see what happens …



Um, crap.

No, let me put a little more real emotion in that.

Uh … shit.

I’m 34 weeks pregnant today.  That seems like an awful high number.  Scarier than that?  It means I officially (I say officially because … well, no one really knows anything, do they?) have 6 weeks left.  That is most certainly not so high a number.  Six.  S-I-X!

Let me reiterate.  Uh … shit.

Do you have a solid grasp yet on how my overactive OCD brain works?  You know I have a list of 2,938,302 things to do before The Squishy (that’s what we call it because we have no name or sex for it … how profoundly adorable, right? Ick.) makes an external appearance.  You know that all of 8 of those things are done, right?  I keep telling myself I have “plenty of time”.

Translation: I am delusional.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Today I went to the doctor’s office for my (presumably) last ultrasound.  The report says the measurements estimate it weighs 6 damn pounds already.  Six.  S-I-X.  Now, I’m the first to tell people that ultrasound weight estimates are largely one part voodoo and one part guesswork, but still.  That’s a much more eye opening number than say … 2 pounds.  6lbs implies that it’s like Real Baby sized.  That means it’s going to show up sooner rather than later … you know, later … like June when I’ll have all of this To Do List crap done.  Maybe.


I think this means I might have to get my self in gear.  There’s bedroom furniture to rearrange, a crib to assemble, more laundry than I’d like to admit, and oh, you know, CHRISTMAS to have in the middle of the whole operation.

My OCD is going to have a stroke.  Possibly today.


So, great news, I’m still alive.  Better news, I’m still incubating a person (32 weeks even today for those of you in the lingo).  I kind of forgot how to manage my time for awhile there, and blog posting took a back seat to sleeping, puking, and finding people to make me spaghetti or smuggle me Sour Patch Kids.  Oh, and that working 60+hours a week thing.  There was that.

But I’m here.  Alive.  Notably not dead.  I missed writing things for all 2 of you to read.  I missed having a place to bitch about random things that irritate me (like how I got thrown out of a midwife’s practice for refusing a blood test … oh yea, wait for that story …).  I tried to think of a cool way to make my reappearance, and lo and behold I’m just not that witty anymore, so …

Here I am.

Returned.  Revived.  Still cranky and loud mouthed.

Hello again, old friends.



I am not one of those happy-go-lucky first time preggos oooohing and aaaaahing over Babies R Us catalogs and the latest trend in diaper clutches on etsy.  I am not racing out to register for shower gifts.  I am not really thinking of names.

Honestly, I’m not all that excited right now.

(Yup, she said it.  Unsubscribe! Fast!)

It might be the hormones.  I had basically non-functional ovaries for the better part of a decade, so any normal amount of estrogen/progesterone is too much for me, let alone the onslaught that is first trimester pregnancy.

It might be the part where I’ve been sick as shit for the last 6 weeks.  Not that I don’t love puking my guts out like every girl who has ever had a whiskey bender, but I don’t really care for it every day.  I also don’t like not getting work done, not getting out of my bed, and not having a clean house.  The constant puking plus my hell bent need to have a drug free tree hugging pregnancy (meaning no anti-nausea drugs) is not the best selling point on why having babies is the coolest thing on the planet.

It might be the part where we tried (and by tried I mean didn’t actively try but gave up any and all forms of birth control with a … well, it’ll happen if it’s going to happen approach) for five years.  Yea, FIVE.  The first 4.5 of those years, I was actively emotionally involved in the process.  I would chart my cycle as it progressed (or largely didn’t, thanks, busted f’in ovaries) and I would regularly hide in the bathroom waiting for those little lines to appear.  And they didn’t.  Ever.  Not once.  Somewhere in that last 6 months (or more, I don’t really remember) I became kind of disenfranchised with the whole endeavor.  It wasn’t working.  It was never going to work.  I didn’t even know if I wanted it to work anymore.

It might be that I had started planning our lives without the prospect of kids.  Or that I just decided what grad school program was the right one.  Or that the admissions committee just finally agreed with me.  It might be that a decade ago That Boy and I agreed that if we ever had babies, one of us would be taking care of them … limiting severely my ability to do um, anything, for the next however many years.

It might be all of it.  It might be none.  It might be that I’m some kind of perverse heartless creature incapable of love and living in a cloud of baby making remorse.  It could be the least popular thing I’ve ever written.

Yea.  That last one is probably true.


1. I am no longer capable of composing cogent posts, so you’re stuck with bullet pointed lists about crap that goes on here.  Aren’t you lucky?

2. I’m still sick and tired.  I hear it ‘goes away eventually’, but I feel like this may be lies propagated by the right to keep people from realizing how terrible they’re going to feel until it’s ‘too late’ to throw one’s self down the stairs effectively anymore.

3. Please don’t send me hate mail for that last one.  Joke, loves.  Joke.

4. Everything is still a mess and it’s adding to both my stress and anxiety levels exponentially.  I get stressed when things are a disaster, and now, because I’m less than inclined to do anything about it I start getting anxious that That Boy is going to begin thinking I’ve lost all motivation and become the world’s laziest bum.  I feel guilty about coming across as lazy because my Type A, first born, overachieving self cannot handle that perception and then I start getting anxious all over again.  Dear Valium, why can’t you be safe for babies?!

5. I’m also vacillating wildly between thinking this whole thing is awesome (we did (not) try for FIVE years to make it happen) and thinking it’s the end of the entire world.  I hear this is because hormones are eating my rational brain as we speak.  This, I do not like one bit.  I am not an emotional girl.  I cry twice a year, approximately.  I cannot have my rational brain eaten by sob inducing hormones and still maintain my reputation as a cold hearted badass.  Oy.

6. The campaign is still going.  I can’t say it’s going well or not going well, really, because I haven’t been there.  I feel like crap and I’m distracted and I just plain don’t want to be there.  Promises, be damned.  I hear I have a good excuse.  I cannot wander around knocking on doors for hours in the hot sun, because the entire time I will be plotting ways to kill an ice cream truck driver and steal his rocket pops.

7. I kicked Britt’s ass in Biggest Loser Part Deux.  The last month of which I was unknowingly incubating a person.  This makes me kind of a big deal.  I’ve also lost 10 more pounds since I found out I was preggo, 2 of which were in the last 2 weeks.  Thank you very kindly, Mr. and/or Ms. Parasite for your lovely addition to my metabolism.  The making it so I feel like I’m in the hull of a round bottomed boat in the middle of a hurricane without my SeaBands also helps.

8. This wee human wants me to eat gluten.  I’m trying not to indulge it.  Except the other day when I met Britt at Shish and attempted to eat my body weight in pita.  Nom nom nom nom.  That’s certainly not very Gluten Free Ann Arbor of me, but well … mostly I needed a transitory reason to say “Gluten Free Ann Arbor” again and piss off that stupid Yahoo group that thinks it owns those 4 words.  Ha.  Sorry.

9. My back hurts.

10. Oh, and while I’m thinking about it … I got into GRAD SCHOOL!  Yes!  Both programs!  Sweet!  Now, the part where I tell them I can go for a semester and then need to take a hundred years off to care for an infant.  Shit.  World, your timing is impeccable.


“Hey, um … are we ever going to have … uh, dinner again?”

Dearest parasite that I am incubating, please stop taking every last ounce of my energy away.  Sure, use what you need to grow into a normally functioning and otherwise adorable mini-human, but me thinks you’re getting greedy and power hungry these days.  You exhaust me.  I can barely move sometimes.  There are breaks of clarity where I think, “I should clean this living room! Now!”, but within a few moments of effort I am compelled by the couch monster to return to lounging.  If I had more couch monster fighting juice stored up, I could win that battle, but you keep taking it.

Not that I don’t love you and all that mushy perfect mother to be crap.

But seriously, kid, you’re killing me here.

Your soon to be uncle told me he is going to mutiny soon if I don’t start feeding this family again.  I don’t cook dinner.  I don’t even think up things other people should cook for dinner.  I clearly don’t go to the grocery store.  Reasons?  You.

I also don’t clean things.  My desk is a disaster.  The office is trashed.  There are so many finger prints on the glass coffee table panels that CSI would have a hard time deciding who murdered who in this place.  The dust.  Ugh.  I don’t even want to talk about dust.

I want to change all of these things.  I want to be up and moving and planning and cooking and shopping and cleaning and cleaning and cleaning.  I want to.

And you don’t.


Come on, wee little fetus, make a deal with me.  I’ll lounge around most (I know, how tragic and difficult) of the time if you’ll give me the occasional break from esophagus searing heartburn, dry heaves, and the inability to keep my eyes open through an entire rerun of Deadliest Catch so I can feed your soon to be family something other than … well, whatever it is they’ve been eating … I clearly have no idea and perhaps take a Swiffer to the entertainment center.

I think that’s fair.

Pretty please?


In a hot second, I’m going to talk about puke.  You may want to skip ahead.

I hate feeling sick.  I promise.  I mean, who doesn’t hate that creepy crawlie in the back of your throat feeling?  I hate when the room is spinning.  I hate knowing that retching is imminent.  I hate that I don’t even feel better afterward like you do post-tequila bender and pre-hang over.  Never ending nausea is not cool.

But then, yesterday I was pretty ok most of the day.  I wasn’t terribly ill.  I was able to leave my couch, drive my car, attend a social function, and eat food all without thinking about puke (or asiago cheese, which is what nausea tastes like to me … ick).  At first, I was stoked.

Then I started worrying.

These early weeks are the ones that require the most blind faith.  I can only know there’s a parasite (which I mean with the most endearment possible)  in there because the good people at EPT tell me there is.  I don’t have xray vision.  The little bugger doesn’t move around yet and remind me that it’s still there.  I haven’t seen it’s little speck of a self in black and gray yet.  All I have is a stick that turned blue, insufferable exhaustion and this nausea to reassure me.

And when that nausea gives me a (much appreciated) few hours of relief, I start to get concerned.

Is something wrong?  Is the tadpole still a tadpole?  Is it where it’s supposed to be?  Is everything going ok?  If it is, why am I not sick if I was sick yesterday?

And then, like magic, all I can think of is cheeseburgers and aged parmesan (up there with asiago on my list of things that currently smell like vomit) and we’re back to gritting my teeth and hoping it will go away if I just. don’t. move.

Somehow, my nausea is now my security blanket.

Tell me this goes away, please.


Past Tense