Puking, while peeing yourself.
It’s officially happened.
Puking, while peeing yourself, as your 16-month old daughter watches, mimicking your hurling sounds? That also happened.
With a toddler who’s curiosity leads her to the edge of the toilet, trying to touch, yes touch, the undigested pizza thrown forth, we’ve been having a rip roaring good time over here. It’s so much fun hating everything.
The past three weeks have been difficult. Caring for a curious, energetic, mischievous little person, when you feel like you are dying, is no easy feat. I’ve cooked probably one meal in my kitchen in over 14-days – a cheese omelette – because the smell of my kitchen, and the site of the vegetables in it, or the aroma of the homemade salsa Merp insists on making again and again, makes my skin crawl, literally, I get goose bumps every time I gag. As you can imagine not cooking doesn’t really fly when you have a little mouth to feed. A little mouth who no longer does chicken nuggets. A little mouth who hasn’t yet grasped the concept of the “sandwich.” Oh how much easier my life would be if she would eat a peanut butter and freaking jelly sandwich.
Lunch today (for her) was cheese and apple slices and chocolate covered raisins. Not the worst meal in the world, but certainly not one fit to be featured on Credible Feast. Speaking of which, not only am I failing at motherhood, but I’m failing at all of my projects too. It’s like the only energy I have is for growing a human, nursing one, burping out the occasional emotion driven blog post, and laying on the couch. I haven’t so much as broken a sweat since the week I found out I was pregnant. Ah, my delusions of grandeur, that this time, this pregnancy, I’d do it differently! I wouldn’t abandon my fitness routine, no way. Ha! Hilarious. The barre will have to wait so I don’t barf all over it. The book and the blogs too.
What’s getting me through? The best husband ever, obviously, but also binge watching Rectify. God, that show is good. Right up my alley. Dark and emotive and brilliantly written. I cry every episode, it moves me so. Not to mention Aden Young. He is my first and only celebrity crush. I mean, look at him….
For all the woman out there, those who battled infertility, those who got pregnant naturally, those who weren’t trying at all, and those who, like me, feel guilty about hating how they feel during the first trimester, I understand. I know that just because you hate how you feel doesn’t mean you aren’t ecstatic that you’re pregnant. It’s a gift and a blessing and the most wonderful thing, but it’s also hard.
At 9 weeks pregnant, this little miracle better stay inside me and grow grow grow all the way to 39-weeks, because I’m not sure I can do this again.
Excuse me while I pick up the dog kibble strewn artistically throughout my house before running to get the only thing that sounds remotely palatable: In N Out! I give it a 50/50 chance of staying put.