April 13: I convince my 65 year old mother who is in her pajamas, reading, to ride with me to Taco Bell at half-past midnight. At first we are self conscious that she is in pjs and clogs, and I am ill and without a bra, but then we put it in perspective and conclude that we cannot be the worst that has crawled through the Taco Bell drive-through after midnight on a Sunday... Just the soberest.
April 14: We've made it to 9 weeks. My baby-to-be is now the size of a grape. And we stop calling it an embryo at this point. It's a "fetus." (Hard to love that word isn't it? I think I'll stick with "grape.")
April 15: My dad cooks rice in a rice cooker and the smell fills the house. I try to hide in my room upstairs but it permeates everything and I am reeling. Of all the foods he makes... Rice? Really??
April 16: There is nothing funny about going to the ER.
April 17: First time in public in days. I come home with three books on pregnancy, unscented chap-stick, and a bag of jelly beans.
April 18: There is nothing funny about being constipated... unless you're the one who is not constipated. If that's the case, the comic potential is limitless. I shit you not.
April 19: Nope. I take it back. There is nothing funny about being constipated. Anyone who makes a joke featuring the word "shit, crap, crapload, shitload, pile, smooth move, movement, bowl movement, anal retention, poo, poop, dookie or doo" gets a punch in the face and my sincerest "Up Yours!" in response. (Shameless, little bugger, aren't I?)
April 20: Ten weeks. Little fetus-froo-froo is the size of a prune. Please tell me you see the irony. (Read April 19 and 18.)
April 21: At 10:00, I am still unsure if I will get on my 11:30 flight for a vacation that had been planned for about a year. I have canceled so much in the last several weeks. I have canceled all business related flights (3.) I have canceled everything social. I have canceled all business...
... and then I line several paper bags with plastic ones to take on board as I decide, "fuck it," because taking a vacation is not going to get easier over the next two decades. Amiright?
naples, fl
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| I wear this hat and this beach cover-up all week. |
April 22: Hey World, I'd like to apologize for the look of distaste I've been wearing for weeks now. Apparently, there is a name for the awful sour/metal taste in my mouth: Dysgeusia.
I prefer my modern spelling: Dysgustia.
April 23: I get a little too enthusiastic about eating at a restaurant and ordering from the grown-up menu. I enjoy a salad, an entree, an entire sweet potato (with butter and brown sugar thank-you-very-much) and most of a slice of key lime pie (I lost a lot of weight to hyperemesis; I can eat whatever the fuck I want!) ... At three AM I am forced to give it all back. To Madam Hyperemesis. Oh, and she left a message on her way out: "Hey Pregnant Lady, You cannot eat whatever the fuck you want. Love, Mme. Hyperemisis. PS. You're out of mouthwash."
April 24: My new diet staple is the DQ blizzard. May I have the high-fiber blizzard? Oh, you know, the one with something crunchy and fibrific. Like Oreos.
April 25: A friend claims to see the beginnings of my "baby bump." I see the effect of a brownie fudge sundae.
April 26: I survive the flight back home, but I fall asleep, curled up in the fetal position in the waiting area between flights. You think fetal position refers to the position of an in-utero fetus, but I am here to tell ya: it refers to the only position that is comfortable to a person carrying a fetus.
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