Monday, June 29, 2009

"honeymoon phase" my ass

It's been said, in numerous places around the internet and in books, that the second trimester is the "honeymoon phase" of pregnancy. You are not ill from morning sickness anymore, and you are not yet so huge that everything sucks.


At least I'm not throwing up anymore. I keep telling myself that. At least I'm not throwing up! But my stomach still often feels like I've swallowed acid. I get to feeling like if I puke, it will just be gallons of lemon juice. Nothing makes it better. Except eating. Sometimes, if I can force myself to choke down something, it helps. But not always. It's a bit of a crapshoot.

There is still so much that I used to enjoy that I still can't imagine eating. Former staples of my diet, which leaves me bereft: cereal, pizza, spaghetti. Cheese. For FSM's sake, CHEESE. But you know what I do like? STEAK. Seriously. Even though I have never enjoyed it in my life, and have spent the last ten years of my life avoiding most animal flesh, I now like steak.

In my own head, if not out loud, I've begun referring to Spagett the Alien Fetus as a "parasitic meatetarian".

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

in which I eat crow

For all the complaining I did about maternity clothes, I got mine in the mail today and I find I must eat crow. The jeans - which I bitched only came in one light colored denim, low rise - are actually really cute and fit great. They fit a damn sight better than my regular jeans with the button and zipper undone!

And the shirts, which I bitched came in funny colors - and I nerved myself up to buy one in a funny color - were actually a lot more muted than I expected. Instead of dayglo aqua, it's a deeper teal color, still bright but not glaring. The other shirts in boring black or white also fit beautifully, and I could get away with wearing them now, as the drapey material is quite flattering to my beer gut.

So I was expecting to be disappointed, and instead, I find myself pleasantly surprised.

Also, it appears that the military has freed up some money and we may be moving in August as originally planned. So that is excellent news, but as always, we'll have to wait and see.

Monday, June 22, 2009

ah, military life...

Sid was supposed to receive his new orders in July, and we would move to his next command in August. I would be five months pregnant. No harm done. Buuut... the military ran out of money for the fiscal year and froze orders. Which means we know where Sid is headed next, but they will not send him there until November.

November. I will be eight months pregnant by then, near- if not already at - full term. My doctors (I rotate between two obstetricians and a midwife) have all agreed this is a shitty time to have to move to a new state. They have written notes to Sid's detailer explaining that I cannot move after 36 weeks gestation (because what if I have the kid on the road?), and require a three month recovery period afterward, in an attempt to get the military to keep us in one spot long enough for Spagett to get here and for him/her to get a few necessary vaccines in before we haul up and leave (and also, FSM forbid, I have to heal up from a cesarean).

The Powers That Be have taken the notes, read them, lost them for a bit, and finally said, "meh." They've said they can't make any promises. They've said that Sid might have to move to his next command and leave me behind to have Spagett (they can't actually get away with this, and they know that we know it is more of an empty threat than anything else).

The damage is done, and Sid is kermitflailing. I'm of the opinion that there's very little we have control over in this situation, and whatever happens, we'll make the best of it because we have no choice. I, like the military, say "meh" while Sid goes "WHARRGARBL."

This could all very well work out great for us, and in the end, we might get Sid's commanding officer to pull a few strings and keep us at this command until March, just like my doctors would prefer. Also, it might work out very badly, with us packing up and moving and stopping on the drive down to our new home to have Spagett at some podunk hospital. Right now, we just have to wait and see.

Don't you just fucking love military life?

Monday, June 15, 2009

apparently "knocked up"="no sense of style"

(For all the bitching I'm about to do, I want you to keep in mind that I'm just grateful this is even something I get to bitch about at all.)

Maternity clothes suck.

Hell, all clothes suck. Shopping is always such a huge pain in the ass when you don't fit the rail-thin ideal, but instead have a very generously shaped hourglass figure. When your arms and legs are freakishly long compared to normal folk.

Yeah, and it's worse when you're shopping for maternity clothes. Apparently your sense of style goes out the window as you approach whale-like proportions. Apparently when "normal" clothes stop fitting, bitches will take what they can get and color and style be damned.

I have trolled every online maternity store I could find, and either the stuff is ugly and overpriced, or just ugly. Old Navy, for example, has some cute shirts that I'd love to have. IN NORMAL COLORS. Dayglo colors don't look on a pasty cave-creature like me. Dayglo is a bad, bad thing when you are as fair-skinned as I am, because skin that white is downright reflective, okay? DAYGLO IS BAD.

And the jeans. Oh, don't get me started on the jeans. In my size, with a long inseam, there is only one - count 'em, ONE - pair of jeans available at Old Navy. And the other sites I checked were all hideously overpriced: I've never paid $200 for a pair of jeans in my whole life, and I'm not about to start now. (BTW, why is it a "pair" of jeans? I don't get it.)

I suppose I shouldn't be getting this riled up about it, but what the hell am I supposed to do when I absolutely cannot fit my regular clothes anymore? I'm rapidly approaching that point: the gut is noticeably more prominent, and my jeans stopped buttoning - and zipping - two weeks ago (thank FSM for Belly Bands). There are only a few shirts that I wear anymore on account of the gut, as the rest are so clingy and skintight I loathe the thought of peeling the fuckers off at the end of the day. Because right now? I don't look pregnant. I just look like I'm sporting a very fine specimen of beer gut.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

gag me...with anything

I had a couple really bad days in the week leading up to our trip to Florida, days which had me hanging over the toilet and retching so hard that vomity toilet water would splash up into my face. So I was expecting the trip down to be hell. Sid and I were fully prepared for lots and lots of hurling. And there was none. On the drive down, I was fine. During our week-long stay at his father's house, I was fine (okay, so there was one iffy moment where I actually hung over the toilet expecting to spew my guts up, but nothing happened). On the drive back, I felt a little gross, but it was nothing like the way I'd felt previously.

And then we got back home. And the very next day, surprise surprise, I'm back hanging out with my old friend Mr Potty. I don't know if it's something about the air in this house, or the fact that cooking dinner is a surefire way to make me retch, but everything is conspiring to make sure that from the moment I wake up in the morning to the moment I fall asleep at night, it is a battle to keep from sharing the contents of my stomach with the crapper.

Looking on the bright side, lots of women say that their "morning sickness" (HA, I say) becomes much more manageable and/or disappears completely around week fourteen. If I've been putting up with this for six weeks now, another two won't kill me. It'll suck, but it won't kill me.

But in the meantime, I think I'll just stick close to the bathroom.