I hear pregnancy is wonderful–women glow and somehow remain sexy even as their bellies grow to elephantine proportions. I wouldn’t know anything about it–I’ve been asleep for 348 hours…just in the last month. So perhaps it’s not surprising that I haven’t been online.
So far, I’m not impressed with this condition. I thought I’d be one of the lucky few who enjoyed pregnancy–I now know that those women are mythological. Do no exist. I have been pregnant for only a little over 2 and a half months and already: I require 12 hours of sleep a night, and naps whenever possible to supplement; when I am awake, invariably, I am shoving food into my face, which has resulted in eating of any kind feeling like a terrible chore; I am not showing–I swear–I am simply fat and bloated. If you touch my belly I will kick you. I am alternatively nauseous, constipated, fluish, cranky, teary-eyed and terrified that the half-glass of wine I drank last week will cause my child to sprout an extra set of genitals.
10 and a half weeks in, and I’m ready to call it quits. My plantitive cries for my husband to punch me in the belly have gone unheeded. It’s not hard for him to ignore me, since I’m only awake for about a hour during which he’s actually home, and I suspect he simply deletes my emails. I know I wanted this, and I know there are too many woman who would kill (preferably me, if they read this post, I realize) to be pregnant. I’m sorry. I’m happy to be pregnant, I swear. But if it doesn’t get better, I don’t think I can do this a second time.
I’m secretly hoping that I will wake up two weeks from now and magically make the 1 hour drive to work without the irrepressible need for a granola bar lest I faint or vomit or both. I will sleep an undisturbed 8 hours–6 if there’s something good on TV–and wake up feeling refreshed and well-rested. My stomach will start to sprout, just a bit, but in a way that’s clear that I’m prenant and not just a fattie. And I will not need to pee twice before I leave the house, directly when i arrive at the office, then every half and hour on the half an hour until I leave for home, where, upon arrival, I must sprint directly to the bathroom.
But I suspect that’s another myth that will shortly be revealed.
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