(I realized I never published this! I must have written it sometime in May. I wouldn’t go back and warn myself that the morning sickness wasn’t going to go away for quite a while, even if I could. I needed to hope it would be over soon.)
I am twelve weeks pregnant. Well, eleven-weeks-six-days by measurement and thirteen weeks by my doctor’s predictions, and already pregnant for forever if you ask me after 8pm and the “morning” sickness has reared its ugly head again. The nurse practitioner says that the relentless nausea is the best sign that my body is doing what it’s supposed to; every time I throw up I should be thankful and happy and imagine a finger sprouting or the baby’s nose moving closer to looking like a real nose in the center of its sweet, transparent face.
It’s getting much easier to feel the moments of surreal joy, now that the throwing up stays put in the evenings for the most part and we got to see our baby bounce and kick on an ultrasound. It’s beginning to feel more real; in the beginning it seemed more like a never-ending flu with a vague promise at the end. The baby is kicking, even if I can’t feel it, and I can’t shake the feeling that our little creature, the size of a brussels sprout, looked so happy on the screen. That particular thought is the one that works the best when I am resting my forehead against the cool linoleum of our bathroom floor.
Earth wind & firebaugh 