(blah)ging

You may have noticed I'm a little less frequent with these updates.  It's a shame, I know.  I started with all this fervor and then wham, bam, I slow my roll.

Here's the thing.  I don't want to be a complainer.  I tried, though not always successfully, to write about the whole my-body-won't-do-what-I-want struggle with humor and brightness or else honest reflection, but I haven't found that balance just yet.  I want to be optimistic, but I'm not out of the pre 12week danger zone.  That, and I pretty consistently feel like crap.

See, the other night I was squatting over a McDonald's dirty toilet, dry heaving away, crying because I couldn't throw up yet crying because I wanted to throw up when I remembered this:

I really wanted to get pregnant.

I've never forgotten this fact. I remember it every time I feel sick.  Every time a smell makes me want to never breathe again.  Every time it's 8pm and I ask if it's bedtime yet.  Every time I sit up, wait a few seconds, then stand to pee in the middle of the night.

Most of me loves being pregnant and smiles constantly at the mere idea that something the size of a raspberry will one day be a living, breathing child that I can raise and love and support and teach. It's a miracle that I don't let myself overlook. 

The only problem is, every once in a while, I get a little hint of feeling sorry for myself.  Crazy, I know!  I mean, do I need to go back and read my own blog?  I wanted this!  I actively WANT this.  And I do, I definitely do.  I just have to stop for a second and help myself snap out of it.  Get back to the Main Bullet Point, if you will.

So as I was in that gross bathroom, with Mama H and Papa H and Big Bro and Big Sis getting burgers and shakes outside, wondering if someone should check on me, I started laughing.  Right out loud, between spitting and crying and trying not to lose my balance and sit on the nastiness.  I laughed at the silliness of this all.  That the thing I wanted most in the world has temporarily overridden everything my digestive system ever knew.  I laughed that rather than a cute photo op with just the five H's getting late night snacks, I was the baby needing to be watched over.  I laughed that already I know I'll look back at these moments with nostalgic haze and forget what they really feel like.

Is there a part of me that eight weeks in sometimes thinks there's no way I'll do this again?  Sure.  But I already know in my bones that even if I don't get pregnant again, I'll manage to love even this part of the story.  The same way I somehow love the year plus that it took to get here.  The same way I'll love this little havoc-wreaking raspberry we call peg (gender neutral).

So now, onwards and upwards with carefully toned posts to frame the nausea and sleepiness and elation.