Greetings from my death bed. Last week was straight balls. Awful balls. The worst. August and I both came down with the flu, and he had croup and an ear infection on top of it. The only glimmer of light that kept me alive was the fact that Adam somehow managed to stay healthy in the dripping, oozing germtopia that is our home, and was Champion Daddy and Champion Husband and Champion Champion and took care of us.
All was well, and then yesterday I got sick again. It feels like the flu did, so I’m just going to call it the flu and not bother venturing out to a doctor’s office for them to say “Yes you have the flu and there is not shit you can do about it will you be paying with cash or credit?” I thought I could at least milk this for a little bit of toddler sympathy. Anytime August sees a hurt or crying kid, he runs up to them and tries to make them feel better. I want to feel better! But nope. “No, you not sick. You need to bwing me a yodurt.” I’ll tell you right where you can shove that yogurt, jerk. So I am fending for myself. And by fending for myself, I mean trying to find a way to have PopTarts delivered while August is napping.
I was feeling pretty alright this pregnancy. No crazy symptoms, better overall health than my last. Then this flu business hit and I got reminded of the pretty much no drugs I am allowed. And THEN I got one of those delightful “Your baby is this size of fruit,” emails that came along with a description of all the shitty things that are about to happen to me as I enter my third trimester. No “You have that pregnancy glow!” or “Eat anything- nothing matters anymore!” Just a bulleted list of all the things that will and won’t be coming out of my butt.
All that, coupled with the constant struggle of not gaining a frillion pounds, has me in a glorious mood lately. I went to my midwives recently for a standard checkup. It immediately started with, “So, your weight…” and I may have yelled a little too loudly that Christmas and my birthday had happened since I had seen them last, and that I had not yet peed out all 64oz of water I drank before the appointment. I haven’t gained anywhere near a huge amount so far, but I am on high alert because I know how easy it is to fall off the healthy cliff into a delicious vat of butter and never be able to claw your way out.
It’s just insanely frustrating to be in this situation where I am mostly eating healthy and balanced meals, and to have my weight going up. It totally should be going up. I am growing what I am positive is an abnormally large human. But for crap sake. It’s still baffling and disheartening to eat salad for both lunch and dinner, several days in a row, and gain two pounds. It’s even more baffling to then say screw it, eat a cheesesteak, and lose a pound. Pregnancy is weird and I just want shit to be regular. Literally and figuratively.
So yea. Pregnancy is no longer nice. It’s a stupid, bloated hellhole and I’m looking forward to this child being outside of me so I can tell it to its face what a turtle fart it is being.
Hugs and kisses. Happy Groundhog’s Day.