My belly has popped, which would be cute, if you could actually see it under all the bloat that’s going on on top of it. Pregnancy so far has been less the splendiferousnesses of wonder and delight I thought it would be, and more about gas. A lot more about gas. Sure, I feel joyous – how could I could I not? It took six years, four years of IVF, two surgeries and lots of money to get here. Despite a midwife girlfriend telling me off recently for daring to ask if I could do something, anything, to make the bloat go away (how long have you tried to get here? You’re not allowed to feel miserable!), I do think I’m allowed to have the odd miserable feeling… You know, just those times when I’m so bloated I can’t breathe, none of my clothes fit and I’m only 14 weeks pregnant, I’ve slumped my head over the sink in anticipation of a surprise spew, and I’m so tired at work I actually fall asleep in a meeting with my boss who asks me if I need a pillow and I seriously consider saying yes. How do pregnant women with a toddler DO THIS and LIVE?!
I’ve had plenty of time to picture me pregnant. It looked something like this:
Garlands of flowers in my hair, walking through a sun-dappled field, then skipping home to both the time and intense bursts of creativity to write a best-selling novel in nine months, taking writing breaks to sip on freshly made vegetable juices as I lie my head on Hugh Grant’s lap on a park bench in a romantic garden, my belly looking adorable while the rest of me is skinny…. really skinny.
It’s been challenging to go from this vision to the reality of all-day morning sickness and tiredness so overwhelming just the thought of my best-selling novel sends me into a coma. I’ve stared at people I’ve worked with for more than two years and wondered what their names are. And Hugh Grant and my skinny ankles are absolutely no-where to be seen.
On top of that, my cat Marlowe is conspiring against me. I found this in his diary yesterday:
I’m beginning to fear all is now lost. My Mistress wanders around in what looks like a daze of silly self-satisfaction and none of it has anything to do with me. Can you imagine? My attempts at making her morning sickness worse by breathing tuna breath in her face as soon as she wakes up isn’t working like I thought it would. It makes her gag, sure, but she still seems kind of… glowy.
Although… she did spew before lunch today and it happened because she was preparing a tuna wrap. Tuna. See? I waited about ten minutes and then spewed on my carpeted cat tree. Her stomach wasn’t quite settled yet and she’s a little funky getting cat vomit out of carpet at the best of times, so she had no hope really. My plan worked because she spewed cleaning up my spew. Not so glowy after that.
So what if my cat is conspiring against me? I am kinda glowy. Wait til he meets the new crying, pooping hairless cat in July – his furry little head’s going to explode.