I was going to apologize for all the bitching. I was going to try to make this whole thing sound sunnier.
Fuck that. (While I can still say "fuck" without worrying if a little someone is going to repeat it.)
The nutty-ass dreams, I can do without. Please. Why the hell, in last night's dream, was I in a bathroom with Zhaan from "Farscape" mixing up hair dye, some of which exploded and made me stupid? (Jason thinks the question here is to ask why hair dye is going to make me stupid. I think the question is, why the hell am I talking hair dye with a bald Delvian priest in the first place, hmmmm?) This is just par for the course, though. This is one of the normal ones. I can't even begin to get into some of the other ones. Hell, I'd be locked up.
The uncontrollable gas, I can do without too. Yeah, I just love letting one rip when our buddy Darren is over - and it completely wasn't on purpose. Even worse was the fact that it cleared the room.
The overly sensitive sense of smell can go bye-bye as well. Like the fruit cup I tried to consume for lunch today. It smells like urine to me, so I can't eat it. Last night I caught a whiff of something burning through an open window as I lay in bed, trying to get to sleep. Common sense told me it was from the apartments with fireplaces, two blocks up, but panic told me it was our house in flames. (You can imagine how far I jumped out of the sheets when I heard the buzzer on the dryer go off about five minutes later.) And women really don't need to wear that much perfume/scented lotions/smelly hairsprays. Please, ladies, you're killing me.
The moodiness can please disappear before I burst into tears at my desk. Everyone feels that way sometimes, but before, it was only a matter of control. Now, it's only a matter of days. :-P It's bad enough that I'm the world's most unreliable geyser at home, erupting into sobs at any given moment, under any circumstances and reacting to any stimuli. Case in point? The bawling session accompanying last night's viewing of "Kindergarten Cop." Yeah, exactly.
Even the one thing that's a bonus - understandable weight gain - is sucking at the moment. I told Jason yesterday that I can't wait until I'm obviously pregnant, when people can look at me and think, in a glance, "Oh, she's pregnant." Because now all I am is bloated. I don't understand why Kiddo is padding my belly for the trip north, out of the pelvis, when there was PLENTY of padding there to begin with. Put it this way: Several months ago, I lost 17 lbs. on Weight Watchers. I've put back on around five pounds. Yet all my pants are starting to fit like I didn't lose a damn thing. BAH.
And if I hear one more well-intentioned person say "It's almost over, it always ends at the end of your first trimester," god help me, I'm smacking them. Why? Because my first trimester ends soon. In fact, according to some conventional wisdom, it ends TOMORROW at my twelfth week of pregnancy. Am I feeling better? Yeah. But is "better" still "pretty damn crappy"? Hell, yeah.
Like I tell Jason, "But your sister Anne's in her fourth month and she's still getting sick!" He reminds me, though, that Anne is her mother's daughter, that their mom was sick all nine months for all three kids. This does not comfort me, as my mother swears she didn't have ONE NAUSEOUS MOMENT with me in the womb. In fact, all I've heard are wonderful stories of pampering and steak dinners. Jason pointed out, however, that we did catch her in a kind-of lie about her pregnancy: She told me that I'd know I'm having a boy if my ass spreads out. Then she said that all signs pointed to me being a boy EXCEPT for that one. Which my dad responded with, "No, Cherie, your ass spread out too!" "Oh it did not!" "Yes, it did! I remember!" So she could be lying about the morning sickness, too. All I know is, I've just confirmed that my ass is going to get fat, and not in the good way (sorry, I like my butt now, I'm going to be sorry to see it go!)
So what are the good things? Picking out baby names and looking at baby clothes. That's about it, at this point, which I'm sure will change as soon as I feel that first kick. At least I hope it does, and hope that such a trauma to my midsection won't make me vomit by that point.
Fuck that. (While I can still say "fuck" without worrying if a little someone is going to repeat it.)
The nutty-ass dreams, I can do without. Please. Why the hell, in last night's dream, was I in a bathroom with Zhaan from "Farscape" mixing up hair dye, some of which exploded and made me stupid? (Jason thinks the question here is to ask why hair dye is going to make me stupid. I think the question is, why the hell am I talking hair dye with a bald Delvian priest in the first place, hmmmm?) This is just par for the course, though. This is one of the normal ones. I can't even begin to get into some of the other ones. Hell, I'd be locked up.
The uncontrollable gas, I can do without too. Yeah, I just love letting one rip when our buddy Darren is over - and it completely wasn't on purpose. Even worse was the fact that it cleared the room.
The overly sensitive sense of smell can go bye-bye as well. Like the fruit cup I tried to consume for lunch today. It smells like urine to me, so I can't eat it. Last night I caught a whiff of something burning through an open window as I lay in bed, trying to get to sleep. Common sense told me it was from the apartments with fireplaces, two blocks up, but panic told me it was our house in flames. (You can imagine how far I jumped out of the sheets when I heard the buzzer on the dryer go off about five minutes later.) And women really don't need to wear that much perfume/scented lotions/smelly hairsprays. Please, ladies, you're killing me.
The moodiness can please disappear before I burst into tears at my desk. Everyone feels that way sometimes, but before, it was only a matter of control. Now, it's only a matter of days. :-P It's bad enough that I'm the world's most unreliable geyser at home, erupting into sobs at any given moment, under any circumstances and reacting to any stimuli. Case in point? The bawling session accompanying last night's viewing of "Kindergarten Cop." Yeah, exactly.
Even the one thing that's a bonus - understandable weight gain - is sucking at the moment. I told Jason yesterday that I can't wait until I'm obviously pregnant, when people can look at me and think, in a glance, "Oh, she's pregnant." Because now all I am is bloated. I don't understand why Kiddo is padding my belly for the trip north, out of the pelvis, when there was PLENTY of padding there to begin with. Put it this way: Several months ago, I lost 17 lbs. on Weight Watchers. I've put back on around five pounds. Yet all my pants are starting to fit like I didn't lose a damn thing. BAH.
And if I hear one more well-intentioned person say "It's almost over, it always ends at the end of your first trimester," god help me, I'm smacking them. Why? Because my first trimester ends soon. In fact, according to some conventional wisdom, it ends TOMORROW at my twelfth week of pregnancy. Am I feeling better? Yeah. But is "better" still "pretty damn crappy"? Hell, yeah.
Like I tell Jason, "But your sister Anne's in her fourth month and she's still getting sick!" He reminds me, though, that Anne is her mother's daughter, that their mom was sick all nine months for all three kids. This does not comfort me, as my mother swears she didn't have ONE NAUSEOUS MOMENT with me in the womb. In fact, all I've heard are wonderful stories of pampering and steak dinners. Jason pointed out, however, that we did catch her in a kind-of lie about her pregnancy: She told me that I'd know I'm having a boy if my ass spreads out. Then she said that all signs pointed to me being a boy EXCEPT for that one. Which my dad responded with, "No, Cherie, your ass spread out too!" "Oh it did not!" "Yes, it did! I remember!" So she could be lying about the morning sickness, too. All I know is, I've just confirmed that my ass is going to get fat, and not in the good way (sorry, I like my butt now, I'm going to be sorry to see it go!)
So what are the good things? Picking out baby names and looking at baby clothes. That's about it, at this point, which I'm sure will change as soon as I feel that first kick. At least I hope it does, and hope that such a trauma to my midsection won't make me vomit by that point.
posted by Maranie @ 1:06 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home