For about an hour. Then the prenatal vitamins kicked in and all my food was digested, and the here arrives the onslaught of evil, malicious nausea and suicide-inducing heartburn. The quenchless thirst. Next my back started to hurt, my bladder filled again, and I was left with a nagging taste in my mouth and no more peppermint tic tacs to chew on.
Despite my best efforts to control the mania that was taking over my brain, I walked over to the mirror and to my shock and awe, discovered that I had turned into none other than Violet Beauregard:
I am the biggest, most swollen pregnant woman this side of earth. My belly is the size of a small SUV. The child inside, only 16 weeks old, must be the jolly green giant. I am a vision of swelled purple heinousness and I need to be sent to the juicing room before I erupt in spontaneous tears again.
I need a tiny village of oompa loompas to cart my pregnant ass around, fetch me sprite and make sure my feet are covered when I'm lying on the couch, moaning and whining between barfs.
Seriously, nobody warns you about real morning sickness. Sure, they tell you you'll feel queasy, might barf, and you should keep saltines by your bed (which by the way, didn't do anything but fill my stomach with stale crackers and more bile). They don't tell you about the times when you'll projectile vomit without warning. The other day, standing in the backyard in my robe and fuzzy slippers, with the neighbor in full view, I proceeded to barf up two pop tarts and a tall glass of juicy juice while attempting to hold the phone far enough away so that my poor Grandmother wouldn't hear the retching. I'm so talented I even avoided hitting Maple, who was standing right under my feet, as usual.
I'm walking around with a human being playing water polo in my grapefruit sized uterus. This human being now has fingers and toes and has begun to urinate. And so have I. Every fifteen minutes or so. BFlo lectures that I use too much toilet paper. And wonders why I so rudely tell him to go fuck himself.
After all, men think giving birth is closely the equivalent to moving a couch into a new house. You push for a minute, wiggle it around, and eventually it pops through. Nevermind that I need all that toilet paper; toilet paper has become a goddamn luxury. Firstly, I need it to wipe after urinating. For every time I stand up after urinating, I must sit down and urinate again. Secondly, I must have it for wiping my mouth after barfing repeatedly. Thirdly, I need it to blow my nose and wipe away nosebleeds, since pregnancy increases blood flow and mucus flow and turns the mommy into a giant nostril. Fourthly, I need it to wipe my bloodshot eyes after the latest crying jag, usually brought on by especially heart-warming episodes of 90s sitcoms, publix commercials, or accidentally stepping on Gatsby's tail.
Oh, the joys of pregnancy. I'm not sure which part I like the best; there's so many juicy tidbits to choose from. There's watching your hips spread wider than Jenna Jameson's legs...there's stocking up on nothing but bags and bags of Doritos and Pizza Rolls because that's all you want to eat, then the very next day discovering that Doritos and Pizza Rolls make you puke...there's the prenatal horsepills, completely mandatory that I take, that give me bacon-burps...the mere act of looking at a toilet making me gag...wanting to beat everyone to death at taco bell when they put ground beef all up in the meatless chalupa I ordered...looking at the father of the baby, and thinking what an adorable head he has, but if only it were a little bit smaller, in case the baby gets it...fears of the fetus pushing its way out of your body through your belly button like in Alien...having to sleep with a body pillow wedged in between your legs so that your stomach doesn't hang uncomfortably in the balance...having your nice, average-sized, perfect tits suddenly turn into giant twin canteloupes that could launch a full scale attack on China...
At least I'm not having twins!
(originally posted on MySpace and edited for blogger)
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