The following is me complaining and being depressed. Those of you who don’t want an insight into my funk, leave now.

Do you know what today is?  Today is the day I am officially OVER this pregnancy.  The first day of real frustration.  I’m fed up.  I’ve had enough.  This is some sort of retribution, I’m sure, for me having such a divine experience with my first pregnancy.

 

Am I romanticizing my pregnancy with Charles?  Probably, but it truthfully was so much better than this.  There are photos of me smiling at 17 weeks because my uterus had popped out from behind my pelvis and I look pregnant.  I remember going to an after-hours event when this happened and eating well and happily, sampling foodstuffs and drinking water.  My skin looked glowy and pink.  People commented on my belly and how cute it was.  I felt good, I felt energetic.

 

I am no longer so sick that I beg God for mercy every night (which I did, for a few months there).  But I am still sick.  Not really sick enough for me to justify taking my anti-nausea medication every day (but I still do some days), but sick enough that I can’t eat normally, and I feel like sh*t most days.  I hate drinking water, juice, milk, or any other beverage, but I do it because I have to.  I am tired and my skin is pale and waxy.  I have bouts of violent vomiting if I don’t keep something in my stomach at all times, but as long as I eat, I feel sick and have horrible heartburn and gas.  And I look fat.  Just plain fat.  Not pregnant.  Fat.

 

And it seems like it mostly is fat and guts that are pushed out of my abdomen to rest over the elastic waistband of my maternity jeans, instead of rock-hard uterus that makes people want to touch and coo over the impending baby.  I think my uterus is still hiding in my pelvis because all my bones relaxed so much this time and my hips spread instantly and my ab muscles gave into the pregnancy stretch right away – there’s more room down there.  After all, my body has done this before, it’s like it snapped back to where it was at 30 weeks pregnant last time… except, I’m not that pregnant yet, so I just look bloated and gross.  Too many nachos and too much beer, that’s how I look.

 

But the sickness.  If only I could get over the gut-wrenching sickness, I think I could laugh the paunch off.  I could go to the gym and feel good about breaking a sweat once in awhile, instead of lying on the couch, moaning and belching.

 

And I’m trying to keep a positive attitude about this.  I really am.  I shut up and cook and clean and play with my son and rub my dog’s belly until Tony comes home from work and I can flop into bed and beg some quiet time from my family.  But I am just so dang tired and frustrated.  I want to look cute.  I want to smile and dream happily about this next child.  I want to be hopeful for the future.  Instead, I dread every day and can only hope that the next five and a half months go quickly because I am just not sure how I can endure.  I am losing hope that the morning (all day) sickness will ever go away.  I am beginning to resent this pregnancy for turning me into a zombie.  I’m supposed to feel all fertile and maternal and instead I am miserable.  It’s starting to make me think that something is horribly, horribly wrong with the baby.

 

It’s just not fair, you guys.  I wish I could hibernate until June.  But Charles wouldn’t understand, and Tony would run out of clean shirts.