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.