**WARNING: This post alludes to the subject of poop. Stop eating or stop reading.**
I’m not very good at keeping up with old wives tales or superstitions or whatever. But I feel like somebody is out to get me.
Can I just say for the record, that if punishment is necessary, pregnancy is absolutely enough. God didn’t condemn Eve with this affliction in the Garden for nothing.
I could be wrong, but I have this theory that one reason pregnancy (and really any other major bodily change, for that matter) affects me so much is because I’m skinny. My body does not naturally absorb change. I start to get a headache if I miss a meal by about an hour. Constipation is visible on me, if you can believe it. As in, no this is not a baby bump. (For the male readers, or childless females, constipation is a pretty normal first and third trimester pregnancy issue.)
Okay, so as if all day morning sickness, headaches, and aversion to almost everything healthy to eat isn’t enough. Only other stay-at-home moms will empathize with my lack of sick days. All I have to say is praise the Lord I’ve always had the foresight to govern my classroom and my house with the idea that one day it might need to run without me. Amazingly, even Eliott and Carter are managing (through tears, most days) to pick up Mommy’s napping slack. John brought me lunch two days ago, the first meal I could eat in over twelve hours, and both girls wailed when he left. They had a brief mid-day taste of potential salvation and it was taken from them way too suddenly.
Fast forward to Tuesday night, where all four of us attended a volunteer celebration dinner at the Y, wrapping up the annual giving campaign (where I was recognized for my milestone with a really awesome water bottle, by the way). It was catered by a BBQ place, and because I didn’t have to cook or smell it before eating, the food was really good.
Until Wednesday morning, when all four of us discovered we had food poisoning.
Carter only made it halfway to the toilet.
John, who had been up since 5:30, confirmed his was “mostly better” by nine o’clock.
I realize this is probably already too much information, so I’ll get to the point: using an amoeba to clean my colon from two weeks worth of back up has been the best preparation for labor pain I’ve received, to date. Thank God yesterday was a school day.
I fell asleep on the couch last night at about eight-thirty. John had a meeting and I told him he could stay as late as he wanted, I’d definitely be in bed when he got home. He took this as his cue to finish up some last minute work at the office, after the meeting ended relatively early. Fine.
I extricated myself from the couch and relocated to my bed at eleven. I left my phone downstairs.
When the alarm went off this morning at six, I was pretty well rested. John uses this opportunity to inform me that his car broke down on the highway at eleven thirty last night. He walked to a gas station and got the lady there to give him a ride home after her shift. He got home at one. Not that I was his first phone call, but it obviously didn’t matter, I never heard the phone ring. I never heard him get into bed. He could have been dead, and I wouldn’t have noticed until five forty this evening when he didn’t come home from work. As it is, he’s alive, and so I rolled over and went back to bed until eight-twenty, because miraculously the girls slept in today.
Somebody is seriously out to get me.
If pregnancy-sickness counts, than we’re up to three. So I guess I can stop worrying about the final bad thing that is supposed to happen.
Meanwhile, John is on this very uncharacteristic glass-half-full kick. First, he surmises, had he not been stranded on the highway near his office last night, he would have been stranded in Raleigh this morning, a far more difficult situation than sweet-talking the 2nd shift Exxon lady. Second, Uncle Sam and his cousin Barack have once again been particularly kind to us this tax season. Kinder than ever, actually, so unexpected car repairs (which may very well be minimal) aren’t causing us to plan rice and beans for the next three weeks worth of meals (though, truth be told, I can eat both rice and beans, and just might, anyway, for the next three weeks). Third. There is no third from John, but here’s my third. This morning, I woke up headache free for the first time in weeks. I ate breakfast over an hour ago and I’m still feeling ready to tackle my day. Perhaps some bad BBQ is to thank. Either that or twelve hours of relatively decent sleep.