Blech. Pregnancy is hard, you guys. I have been SO sick. With Charles’ pregnancy, I was sick, but not debilitatingly so. I seem to remember a lot of sleep, a few heave episodes, and an unhealthy consumption of cottage cheese. This time, the cottage cheese is no friend of mine.
Nor is anything else, really. I don’t want to eat a thing, but in order to keep the heavies at bay, I must. But I can’t do cheese. And I dislike sugary stuff, but not entirely, not like with Charles. With Charles, I couldn’t look at a donut. Now, I just don’t want one. Much like I don’t want a banana, or a PBJ, or an apple, or some bacon, or a bowl of soup. Do you see the problem? Nothing sounds good, nothing tastes good.
But the lack of appetite would be a non-issue if it weren’t for the other changes in bodily function this pregnancy has wrought. I do okay in the morning, mostly just a retch here and there as I choke down some cereal. I vomited in the sink the other morning, loudly, and really scared Charles, I think, but I’m mostly okay. The worst part about the mornings is the excess saliva. *shudder* That part’s not the worst part of the rest of the day, though, because other horrid symptoms take over by around 4pm.
In the afternoons, I am tired and just plain nauseated. All the damn time. What I want is to curl up in a ball and go to sleep, but there is a limit to how much sleep a pregnant lady with a hyperactive toddler can get. The nausea, though. The soul-crushing, crippling nausea. It has, in recent weeks, made it impossible for me to care for my family. As soon as Tony gets home in the evening, I go to bed. The gas, the bloating, the pain… oh, my gosh, I just can’t even describe how awful it is.
So! We’re edging up on twelve weeks over here… Do you know what I want for Christmas? I want to feel better. With luck, I will. After all, these symptoms are all just supposed to disappear by week thirteen, right? Right? Oh, Lord, it is going to be a looong, unhappy tax season if I stay sick.