If you’ve been reading me long enough, you’ve made it through birth #2, the glory and the angst, the highs and the lows, and most definitely, the tossing of the cookies.
My genetic forbears saw fit to gift me with the amazing and not-very-enviable talent to keep absolutely nothing down from weeks 5-20 of a pregnancy. No really. Nothing.
Last time, they had me on cancer-survivor pills to keep me mobile and erect. Otherwise, I’d be gracefully draped over my bathroom floor, wondering when someone (anyone!) would put me out of my misery. There’s a scientific term for it: hyperemesis gravidarium, which only slightly doesn’t sound like a wand-waving catchphrase from Harry Potter.
NOT THIS TIME. (I say in a shaky, beleaguered voice).
Yea, though I spent all weekend hurling my poor stomach into the depths of misery, I will not go quiet into that vomitous night. I am convinced, altogether baselessly and quite emphatically, that this nausea will not get me down. On the contrary. This time I take it as a personal challenge to make it out of bed, into the shower, more or less dressed, and TO WORK each day. I’m also hoping to avoid the drugs, though I may retract that statement later.
I’m also praying. A LOT. Hoping He That Cares For The Sparrow will turn a beneficent eye to my plight and yes, in the great cosmic log-jam of oil spills and dictators and social injustice and, you know, the universe and everything…give me a leeeetle break.
Here’s hopin’. Send good vibes thisa-way.