But if you read our previous post, you would know the many reasons, in Eric's opinion, that our kid will be cool. I'd like to state for the record that, in my opinion, any inherited cool-ness will certainly be from the paternal lineage. It's really our kid's only hope. And I'm okay with it.
I'll tell you one thing, even if our future kid will be awesome, he certainly isn't making me FEEL awesome. (Warning! The next paragraph will contain untold amounts of whining and complaining. If you don't have the stomach for it, too bad. I'm pregnant and I get to whine about whatever I want!) For starters, I'm exhausted. all. the. time. I used to be able to come home from work, do a little laundry, cook dinner, clean up a bit, go for a run. These days, nothin' doin'. I mean, I'm lucky if my tush leaves the couch for more than 10 minutes in between the time I plop down after work and the time that Eric suggests that if I'm going to fall asleep, I might as well do it in our bed. AND I'm always hungry, but nothing sounds good. In fact, foods I used to love now disgust me. And the list of acceptable food changes every day. I'm actually convinced that the hormones now surging through my body are in fact changing the physical chemistry of the foods I put in my mouth. Is that possible??
Oh, and then there's the mood swings. One moment I'm weeping because the little girl on the commercial gave her mom the perfect Hallmark Mother's Day card, and the next I'm cussing because I can't find the right pair of socks that I want. Eric was rubbing my back during one meltdown and afterwards I said, by way of explanation, "I think I'm probably just reacting to the hormones." And he said, "Yeah, I know. I read that in the book." There you have it. And the baby's only the size of a blueberry.
Last night as I was bemoaning all of the wonderful and disturbing changes going on in my body, I said to Eric, "I don't like being pregnant." I can't remember his exact words, but it was something to the effect of, "That didn't take long." and "You've got a long way to go, lady." So helpful, my husband. Actually, he is very helpful. Because of the aforementioned exhaustion, he has now taken on full responsibility of the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking and the wife-pampering. I tell you what, I married a good one. I keep asking him if he's sick of me, yet. He says no, but I don't believe him.
By the way, did I mention the nausea? (Look out! The complaining's not over yet!) I don't even have a chance to defend against it! It starts first thing in the morning like some vomit-inducing alarm clock. I've been given all kinds of advice (keep some crackers on your bedside table, eat a snack before bed, try to eat first thing when you wake up), but when the foods that I can stomach one day repulse me the next, it's hard to be prepared for the onslaught of queasiness. Sometimes I just sit there and think to myself, "Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don't throw up." But you know, that usually works just about as well as trying to not think about a polar bear.