I’ve already turned into the crazy pregnant lady. I have dual conflicting fears. The first is that I’m going to lose the pregnancy, and the second is that I’m having a hysterical pregnancy. Seems silly to have both fears, right? I mean, if I’m afraid of losing the pregnancy, then I must be pregnant. And if I’m not pregnant, then why should I worry about losing it?
My biggest problem is a near total lack of symptomology. I’m not sure if that’s a real word, spell check doesn’t recognize it, but it sounds awfully medical. Other women who are around the same stage as me are complaining of ravenous hunger, unbearable fatigue, breasts that are so sore that they have to stand under warm water to release the pain, cravings, morning sickness, increased frequency of urination, and bloat. I’ve got nada. I’ve got gas (both ends) and constipation (probably related to the gas) and mild cramping on my left side that I constantly remind myself is NOT evidence of an ectopic pregnancy. I know I probably should consider myself lucky to have “gotten off easy” so far, but it’s hard to sit back and enjoy the ride when I worry that maybe something is wrong because I’m not unbuttoning my pants after lunch and collapsing on the couch in a pile of blankets at the end of the day.
My other craziness relates to “things to avoid.” Before I was pregnant I swore up and down I wouldn’t become one of those people obsessed with cutting out everything that may or may not be bad. I’m going to eat soft cheeses damn it. And I even decided that I’d have a glass of wine or two throughout the pregnancy because French women? They don’t give up their wine and cheese when they become pregnant. And there is an entire country of perfectly fine and healthy French children. And I figured it would keep the secret a secret for a while longer, because I’d be out with my friends, sipping a glass of wine, lulling them into a false belief of my extreme non-pregnant state.
And then that second line appeared. And I stopped eating turkey sandwiches. And I purposely chose a burger with pepper jack cheese instead of a sandwich that included blue cheese. And I’m consciously avoiding bacon. And then of course, came the night when I went out for drinks with my coworkers. All thoughts of “a glass of wine” flew right out the window. I couldn’t drink a glass of wine. I WOULD KILL THE BABY. I came up with a brilliant idea to order a glass and take baby sips throughout the night, leaving at least half of it. As my coworkers got drunker and drunker they would forget what glass number I was on. And then they started calling me out. Asking if I didn’t like the wine. The bartender even offered to switch it out for me. And my boss, MY BOSS told me he noticed the level of my glass wasn’t going down very far at all. I texted J and told him I was going to drink a glass of wine and to PLEASE tell me it was going to be okay – because around this time, Muppet is working on the cells that will make up the nervous system and brain and the last thing I want is for our Muppet to end up with an arm growing out of the brainstem. So much for my plan of a perfect French woman pregnancy.
No comments:
Post a Comment