It’s magical! (Week 9.)
Have you tried ginger?
Have you tried hot lemon?
What about crackers?
Hmm OK, have you tried warm lemonade?
What about standing on your head in a bath full of urine on a Tuesday at 3pm while farting the national anthem?
Yes I have.
Nothing helps. I am as sick as fuck.
Oooo *obligatory head tilt* ‘Must be a girl then.’
You have no idea the terror that fills me with, but let’s move on.
I said this time would be different. I said I would be ‘all bump’ and as well as being ‘naturally’ slim I would be one of those women star jumping in front of the gluten free aisle at 34 weeks. I would eat healthy, drink no caffeine and I would clearly post a video of me horse riding and cross country running 2 days before labour on you tube.
‘Look! Look at that healthy pregnant woman!’ people would gasp. ‘She looks like Joan of Arc!’
So yeah, that was the plan.
Instead I have immediately morphed in to THE AMAZINGLY LUMPY ELEPHANT WOMAN and spend my days either vomiting up my innards and pulling noodles out of my nose or trying not to wet my pants whenever I sneeze. (Funny how quickly that little wonder returned!)
I also desperately wanted this pregnancy to be all about the baby as last time I was unwittingly depressed and miserable and I still feel guilty for making it all about me. I was going to be bloody serene! SERENE I TELL YOU!
But nothing is going to plan.
I don’t think I’m built to be a thin pregnant woman and I hate horses anyway.
I look like a portaloo with legs stuck out the bottom.
I am too sick to apply make up. I am too sick to make conversation. All I want to do is lie in bed groaning. My hair is greasy, my eyes are hanging off my chin and my back is permanently arched and sweating.
The Irish one has been understanding.
Apart from that one time he asked when I would be up for ‘sexy time’ again.
I told him in no uncertain terms, while stinking of vomit, bloated like a dead fish and omitting smells of death from my arse, that if he found me sexy he could absolutely take a mental picture and go and have a wank. (And then I climbed back in bed to continue groaning.)
He hasn’t asked since. (Bless him.)
Last time I beat myself up a lot. I mean it was constant. I was too fat, and I was too miserable, my thighs were too big, my arms wobbled, my uterus didn’t retract quickly enough, I didn’t feel like pounding sex every night while my boobs flailed about like udders beneath me. I was just not enough. I wasnt good enough at pregnancy. I compared myself to other women constantly, I failed every day .
This time, although I have come to realise I am not going to be thin, nor I am not going to be willowy or have any inclination to do cross country (the idea of cross country running makes me want to kill wildlife – seriously.) I am trying to be ok with it. I am not going to compare myself. I am not going to feel like a failure.
I realise this is the last time I will do this.
So I may as well make the most of it and at least try and ‘enjoy’ my big cellulitic chin.
I am not Joan of Arc. I am an elephant.
And I am trying so hard to be ok with it.
I am a fat, sick as fuck, plodding pregnant lady who is not enjoying pregnancy at all.
And I am OK with it.
And I am OK with it, OK?
Did I say it enough times to convince you?
I am sulking.