Hi, boys and girls, it’s me, Supa! I’m emerging from my huddle on the couch to say, I’m pregnant again! Couldn’t be more excited about a new baby. Kind of already over the pregnant thing, but I’ll put that down to the eternal, ever-present queasiness. Illustrated: I walked in the door last week and immediately retched, simply because my dear husband had fried chicken a few hours earlier. Made him feel like a great cook. I am so over this already.
Yeah so, that’s where I have been: hiding with my eyes closed, trying to sleep my way out of the nausea, but it isn’t working.
I am exhausted and of course I already can’t sleep through the night to save my life. Last night I woke at 1 a.m. to find Owen in my bed; I made him get out and visit the bathroom and was about to put him back in his own bed when he confessed that the reason he was in my bed in the first place is because his was covered in chunks of vomit. Surprise, Mom! You can imagine what a good time I had cleaning that one up.
If it’s not a fragrant pile of barf, it’s my own indigestion, or my bladder, or my husband’s snoring, or Cormac making some pretty surreal middle-of-the-night inquiries. I am resigned already to setting aside “sleep” as I once knew it until Short Round hits his or her first birthday (September 2011, not that I’m counting).
Things that make me want to barf:
- remembering smells
- thinking about something I once smelled
- imagining I can smell something
- smelling, basically.
- Smell smell smell.
I can’t even enter my kitchen without my hand over my nose. Neither can I identify the source of whatever it is in there that’s punching me in the upchuck center. (Admittedly, it could be my colorful imagination). All I crave is soup from Panera, with maybe a few hard candies for dessert. I indulged my craving for gummy bears earlier in the week and my insides revolted. Lesson learned.
Anyway, I know it’s kind of early to share this news, but I have a good feeling about little Short Round, and the only way I’ll be able to emerge from my huddled, gut-wrenching coccoon is if I am permitted to complain about it vigorously for about, oh, seven and a half more months.
(Bam! Told you I had updates!)