Birthday Blossom Recap

Recently I experienced my first pregnant birthday.  (Ok, you caught me, it was like a month ago.  Cut a gal some slack).

I turned 29 for the first time, and plan to remain 29 indefinitely.

As you may imagine from my recent blogging absences, I didn't feel so hot.

One of my friends asked me recently how this pregnancy is different than the last.  I struggled to answer in any coherent sentences.  It's just.... hard?  Because I know what's coming?  Even though I know the first trimester does end. It ended this week I guess. But I'm teaching full time and chasing a nearly-toddling 1 year old and doubting myself and all sorts of emotionally upside down.  So I'm tired.  Which is normal.  Yet overwhelming.  And I throw up less but I cry more and I just but then somehow it could seems........

See, even there - incoherent.

At any rate, the nausea and exhaustion that is starting to subside now, was up and in full force back during Apple Blossom Birthday time.  That, and some serious sinus/headcold misery.  I was insistent that my hometown not find out I was pregnant just yet, so I strapped on my happy smile and made the most of it.

That picture was from the Fireman's Parade.  Isn't he darling?  I think so at least.  He hardly smiled, but I think that's mostly because he'd been in the car for two hours only to end up at an overstimulating parade without a normal dinner meal.

The next day we buddied up with M and her girlfriend N.  We spread our blankets in the former state senator's yard and we avoided everyone.  Sadly, I realized later that meant I had missed an opportunity to see someone I actually had really wanted to see.  On the up side, I missed all the fake hugs and how are you's that come with returning home on one of three yearly occasions that anyone goes back.  I'll see them at Thanksgiving.  Or I won't because I'll be in labor.  We'll see.

The highlight of the parade, aside from watching PDG clap, giggle, crawl, and cheer with us, was Papa H and Mama H riding in the Grand Feature itself.  As president of a local charitable organization, my dad got a convertible and a sign.  He says people shouted and yelled for him, screaming that the sign should've said "best math teacher ever" and other things to that effect.  I'll admit, it's pretty cool having parents who have taught half the town, and did a pretty superbly amazing job at that, such that they are practically celebrities.

By the time the parade ended we were all pretty pooped.  We packed up, drove home, threw up, and had some dinner.  Step number three was just me.  Everyone else managed to transition from the drive to dinner far more smoothly.

So the next morning, when Mama and Papa H offered to take PDG to church and let me and J-Man stay home and rest I said YES!  Best birthday present I could've asked for.  Me and my J-Man, cuddled on the couch, snotty and sick and getting older and proclaiming we will not have any more children and happily in love.

And here I am, writing about this all with a smile.  How does pregnancy make you so quickly nostalgic in such a happy way for days when you are in pain and/or miserable?

I Am Superwoman

This weekend I was thinking how to frame this post.  Clearly I went with comparing myself to a superhero that might not even exist (does she?), but there were other options.

The first, and really the only other, was Nicole Conquers Puke.

Sorry, were you eating?

I am too.  But that's one of the amazing things about this pregnancy.  Puking is now such a normal part of my life that I don't even blink when discussing it.  Sort of like ovulation and cycle days used to be.  Instead, it's transformed into a source of pride.

For example, the other night when my red velvet mini cupcake did not help with the "any food in your tummy is better than an empty tummy" advice, and I found myself visiting mr. toilet before I even said hello to J-Man upon getting home. There I was enjoying the cake a second time, while crying and having a nose bleed all at once, and I stopped to give myself a pat on the back.

Ok, not 100% true.  First I called out to J-Man for a glass of ginger ale with lots of ice and a cold wet washcloth for my forehead and then neck.  Then we laughed and said hello and I love you and I patted myself on the back.

Look what I can do!

Since then I've found some other exciting locations to kneel and discovered that even crackers and ginger ale like the two-way road map of my esophagus.  Who knew?

Mama H is worrying I'm losing weight, but I assure her I still eat plenty, plenty, plenty.  Especially when french fries are on the menu.  Yum!

On the weekends I wonder how I get through a work day, but then work comes around and I do it.  I just do it.

A friend of mine told me that this would happen.  That motherhood would be a constant belief that I couldn't do anything more, and then finding resolve and realizing I am superwoman.

Yes, I look forward to the days where being superwoman has less to do with trips to the bathroom and more to do with well, just about anything else, but for now I guess I'll own it.

11 weeks tomorrow, 2nd trimester peeking it's hopeful head, a chance to hear my peg's heartbeat in a week - all food to the superhuman soul

(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.