I’m not going to apologize for the lack of posting, structure, or general theme to my recent updates. Those of you who understand morning sickness, all day, for sixteen weeks, are impressed that my current children are still alive. Forget about this silly blog, which needs no food. But to those of you who echo the sentiments of my baby sister (at dinner a few weeks ago), sounding something like this: “You know I can’t even remember the last time I had the flu. I just can’t imagine, or even remember really, what you must feel like. And since I never really get sick, I honestly don’t think I’ll have a rough pregnancy,” I would like to paint a word-picture that the migraine prevented me from creating that night when I politely agreed that your pregnancies would probably be easy, and silently prayed for the ability to projectile puke all over you across the table at that very moment.
Morning sickness, for me, is exactly like waking up with a tequila hangover. There is generally no vomiting, though, the sour stomach threatens it for the first hour, and then about hourly for the rest of the day. Muscles ache in places for seemingly no reason at all (much like they do when you have spotty memory of the night before). The room spins every time I stand up (for the first few hours, but this wanes throughout the day). Head generally throbs at first, then dulls to a liveable ache, which is exasperated by loud noises and bright lights (things like preschool children and sunshine). Nothing sounds good to eat but coffee and bacon, but no all you can bacon buffet is to be found, oh and the coffee must be taken black, as half and half would definitely induce immediate and unsatisfying puking.
Then, to borrow my mother’s word-picture, at 2:30pm, every single day, an evil little invisible elf skips out from behind the couch and pulls the energy plug right out of my left heel. I have approximately seven minutes before all of my physical and mental energy drains, from my heel to my head. I typically collapse in what could otherwise be a state of temporary death, as I’m fairly sure my heart stops beating during that time. I wake up worn out from such deep sleep, and covered in sweat. I usually lose at last three pounds in the course of two hours. Often, my face goes numb. I am again hungry for bacon.
After unseasonable warmth through January, February, and March, central North Carolina is now experiencing a bout of unseasonable perfection in May. At 11am, I am on my back porch in shorts and a sweatshirt, the occasional scent of wet soil reminding me to water my garden this summer. My house is silent, save the occasional gong of the grandfather clock. Eliott had her final soccer game this morning at nine. Guess who didn’t go? Guess who refuses to feel guilty about that? These blissful moments are rare right now.