1) Sucker and 2) Punch.
From the get-go, it's just been one surprise after another, y'all.
The night I wrote about leftover turkey sandwiches and Cyn commented that she'd once put pickles on her leftover turkey sandwiches then discovered herself to be pregnant a few days later, I took the third of three consecutive every-couple-days pregnancy tests and found I'd "passed" this one. Cyn, you get "soothsayer" points for that one, honey!
Shortly after the confirmation of the Peanut's pending-ness, I lost the turkey sandwiches, complete with multiple pepperoncini, the hightly-touted pumpkin crunch, and, accordingly, all desire to live, as the Great Stomach Virus of '07 struck with a vengeance. The only thing more shocking than finding out you're pregnant when you're least expecting it is finding out you're pregnant and then commencing to barf out all your vital organs into a pink bucket two short hours later.
And getting up the next morning to have your kitchen painted Violent Red.
Four coats worth.
Over the course of the next 48 hours.
While you simultaneously vomit, moan in agony, and start the process of adjusting your solid "We're done having children" thinking to "...but God, apparently, isn't."
And that crisis passed, followed by a three-week hiatus from sleep, during which I scrutinized closely the ceiling of every bedroom in the house for hours on end while thrashing around restlessly, praying to God, the Sandman and anyone else who would listen to PLEASE, PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE shut my brain down and grant me a few solid hours of blissful, peace-filled unconsciousness. But that's not how it works around here. Oh no. This brain does not sleep until and unless it's picked over a situation from every angle, every dimension, flow-charted every possible ramification both positive and negative and come up with an illustrated, annotated, 6 part plan for dealing with the situation that keeps the owner of the brain in complete and perfect control for the entire life-span of the situation and its consequential fall-out.
You can imagine that an unexpected brand-new HUMAN BEING showing up on the proverbial doorstep requires a ploob or two more late-night brain activity than your average situation.
Hence, no sleep. For three weeks.
The sleeplessness? It do pack a wallop. Shore do.
And then came the past week.
Allow me to expound.
I wrote in my pregnancy blog on December 11 (LAST Tuesday):
I'm still not feeling much of anything. I worked out (on the treadmill - my regular three mile walk) yesterday for the first time since that horrible virus hit and that went really well. I didn't feel tired or lightheaded at all, and there were times I felt like running but didn't because Bean was close by and she kinda scares me around that treadmill. I don't want it to be going really fast if she somehow knocked something into it or tossed something at it, lest one or both of us be sucked under and ground into a fine paste.
A week later, (THIS Tuesday), I wrote:
Maybe I'll be back later today, or maybe I will instead be lying prone on my kitchen floor with a 32 oz. block of Velveeta in one hand and barf bucket in the other. We shall just have to wait and see.
What a difference a week makes.
The energy level, it has plummeted.
And! BONUS! I also have
Didn't have morning sickness when I was pregnant with Bean. And in retrospect, I have been smug about that fact, even thought all these years I've thought I was just being grateful. Yes, now in retrospect, I look back at that smug little priss-pot, un-sick, blissfully pregnant Megan and I wish I could smack her smiling little face right off her neck.
Because now Mama is getting her come-uppance in a big, bad, bile-in-the-back-of-her-throat way.
And just in time, all the energylessness and quease, for my two Big Parties that of course, centered around food. For the past week, concurrent with my trip to the depths of morning-sickness hell, (I hope these are the depths, anyway, please God let these be the depths, okay?) I've been up to my armpits in six dozen pecan sandies (choke), a slow-cooker full of queso dip (retch), forty something little blobs of pesto (gag), and oh, best of all, 3 lbs of raw Italian sausage (projectile vomit).
Welcome to The Unblissful Pregnancy, Mama.
Put up yer dukes!
Please know that while I really DO feel lousy right now, I recognize it's a temporary thing only AND I am, we ALL are, absolutely thrilled The Peanut's on his/her way into our lives and into our family. Despite these early unpleasantries, I fully recognize what an amazing blessing another child will be, and that above all of the green-ness and the exhaustion, I'm also feeling delightedly giddy, mushy and overwhelmed with love for this little one, without whom, from the instant I knew about him/her, I've known our family could never be complete.