What on earth am I growing in my uterus exactly?
I mean with The Chief I could cooperate with the world even though I was daily upchucking (almost all nine months). With Ever I found solace in a spiritual guide to pregnancy even in the sickness. But this pregnancy, oh boy, this one makes death seem like a viable option. This one has me waking up choosing a breakfast that will come back up easily and making tactical plans on how I will make it through the day and back into the very bed that spits me out.
I know, I know, this isn't what you come to read about on a blog called Enjoy It.
It's just that my kitchen appliances buzz too loudly, the color of the dinning room floor isn't matching the curtains and everything is wrong. EVERYTHING IS WRONG. Of course the buzzing, mismatching and wrongness didn't occur to me two months ago, but today it overwhelms me and makes me barky. And barfy. Barky and barfy both.
I feel like I am poisoned. Like someone is putting small doses of cyanide in my ice water and every time I drink it I die a little. But the ease at which I feel dehydrated is so overwhelming that I keep drinking and drinking and DYING.
And yes, the dramatics which I am displaying here are also sponsored by this pregnancy. This change of hormones has a calling card which arrives at 4:30 in the morning, 11:15am, 5:00-8:00pm (dinner has been banned in our home--don't even MENTION IT) and if I am not asleep by 9:30pm it drops by at 10:00pm--never late either.
Why am I typing this? Why am I sharing exactly? There is so much suffering in the world and I am complaining about a little pregnancy sickness?
I think it's a cry for help. Not like a stop-by-and-visit me help (because I assure I will not answer the door in my pajama-clad haziness nor will I move off the spot on the couch where I wait out my existence) but a plea for reassurance. Remind me again how humans are worth growing. Tell me about how they can turn out as lovely, Nobel-Peace-prize-winning people capable of life-saving and dream-making. Or help me remember the pink furriness of the skin on a fresh newborn. How their poop doesn't really start smelling until you introduce solids. Remind me of how much I love my own little brown-eyed creations, the very ones I wanted so badly for years. FOR THE LOVE OF PETE LIE TO ME IF YOU HAVE TO.
It all can become so intoxicating I have to stop and remember holding Ever one sunny morning just months after her birth. There was a clear feeling that came into my heart and mind, telling me I would have another baby soon. I remember mentioning the thought to Chup and mentally making a note that I should be prepared. Only now I see that it wasn't really about being prepared but being willing.
I am not cheerful, perky or prepared, but I am willing. I hope that's enough.
'Cause it's all I got.
p.s. I look forward to your aforementioned help. I am lying, I don't look forward to anything. But still help me ok?
Here's a link to the essay in my heart, a Small Sacrifice, by the great Lani B. Whitney who--as always--writes it better than I do.