Triumph

Yesterday I successfully consumed an entire popsicle in just two sittings.

Today: two slices of pizza!

That Deep-Down Body Thirst

I went to the doctor yesterday and got a prescription for a drug they give chemo patients to stop them from throwing up. Supposedly it won’t deform the baby, which is nice, but not as exciting as not dying of dehydration or starvation or frustration. I also got some Gatorade at the pharmacy—the red flavor. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my whole life.

Reality

I don’t want this to become a pregnancy blog in which I go into gruesome detail about my various discomforts and discharges and alienate people who aren’t pregnant themselves, but I’ve just spent the past four days throwing up—and I mean continuously. Think food poisoning. Think stomach flu. Think “I wouldn’t particularly mind if I died right now.”

“Try saltines,” the books urge—but I can’t even hold down an ice chip.

I am so never getting pregnant again.

Optimism

I thought it was just motion sickness from the airplane ride home, but we’ve been home for 18 hours now and it hasn’t gone away. My mom said she had almost no morning sickness when she was pregnant with my brother and then just a little bit with me, so I’m hopeful it won’t get much worse than this.

Breeders

It’s my birthday today. I’m 34—and did I mention, pregnant? Yesterday afternoon Dr. Fiancé and I went to South Beach’s lone bookstore and bought a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting—the only pregnancy book they could fit in between photobiographies of Marilyn Monroe and coffee table food porn. Dr. Fiancé also picked up a copy of Pat the Bunny. The combination of the two purchases caused the uber-trim, black-clad, perfectly manicured salesman to give us withering look that sighed: breeders. Then he said it’s a good time to bring a kid into the world—which we assumed was sarcasm. “At least we have Obama,” I shrugged, wishing I were wearing the “Silence Equals Death” t-shirt I never got around to buying. The salesguy smiled and nodded and pointed out that by the time our kid is old enough for it to matter the economy will have improved and maybe the country will be a more progressive place than it’s been for the past eight years. “Congratulations,” he said as he handed us the bag—and he seemed to really mean it.

Today’s adventure was our first trip to Baby Gap (a set of stripey socks and two onesies) and then to Everglades National Park, where alligators lollygagged right next to the sidewalk—close enough to touch if common sense didn’t dictate otherwise.

Also I found out I’m already considered five weeks pregnant and that the little critter has a heart the size of a poppy seed. It’s a total cliché—but it does truly feel miraculous.

So

It turns out having to pee all the time is an early sign of pregnancy. As is feeling all week like you’re just about to get your period. As are breasts that suddenly weigh as much as watermellons and nipples that have been standing at attention for six tiresome days. (Did I neglect to mention that before?)

I peed on a stick this morning and a big blue plus sign emerged before I could even set the stick down on the side of the sink.

I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant?

I’m pregnant!

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

I’m pregnant.

I took Dr. Fiancé to the beach to tell him the news, figuring it was a nice echo of his marriage proposal. It turns out that South Beach isn’t quite as private as a beach on Molokai’. Even in this struggling economy, people are vacationing in Florida. I pulled him out into the ocean until the water was up to our knees and the nearest people were a few yards away and asked him if he wanted to be a dad. He smiled his sweetest smile and said of course, and I said that’s good ’cause you’re going to be, and he said, yeah—like someday, yeah, of course I’ll be a dad. “No,” I clarified. “I mean—you are going to be a dad.” Dr. Fiancé’s eyes got all big and his eyebrows went way up and he hugged and kissed me and said, “Wow”—and couldn't stop saying it all day long.

Lost in Translation

Guess what my aunt made us for breakfast this morning: a British-style tea party complete with homemade scones and crème fraiche and get this—lemon curd. Always the polite guest, Dr. Fiancé spread some curd on his scone as directed, and proceeded to declare it delicious. I shared my cake quandary with the table, telling my relatives about Dr. Fiancé’s aversion to the word “curd.” Everyone pitched in with alternatives: lemon spread, lemon cream, lemon delight, lemon surprise. My teenage cousin looked up a French translation online and proceeded to mangle a phrase that sounded like “coffre beurrehgh.” Not much of an improvement. I tried to read Dr. Fiancé’s face throughout the conversation to see whether he truly only minds the name of lemon curd, or if he truly doesn’t like the taste. The answer remains unclear.

In other news, I keep going to the bathroom every 20 minutes to see whether my period has started. It hasn’t. Weird. Very weird.

Late

Dr. Fiancé and I flew to Charlotte, North Carolina today to visit my aunt and uncle the minister who’s performing our wedding ceremony.

I checked my calendar yesterday, and my period was due last Saturday, give or take. “Maybe you’re pregnant,” Dr. Fiancé grinned, but I assured him I’m crampy and feel like I’m just about to get my period—it’s just taking its sweet time in getting started for some reason. “I’ve never heard of feeling like you’re going to get your period being a sign of pregnancy,” I said, as I climbed over him to get into my seat after heading to the bathroom for the third time on the flight to check my cycle’s progress. He pointed out that he’s never heard of someone feeling like they’re just about to get their period for a whole week. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” I proposed to no avail. We’ll just wait another few days and see.

A Club of Onesies

Last night I gave my first public reading of my work, at a local writing center. I read my blog entry from December 8 about my misadventures in biofeedback and the one from January 12 about my perennial baby-craziness.

I was a nervous wreck all week, my stomach a flock of angry birds, and the anxiety making my period late. I’d been assured by friends and fiancé alike that once I got started, the nerves would wear off and I might even start to enjoy myself.

They were totally wrong.

The lights were super bright and in my eyes, and I couldn’t see anyone’s face to be able to tell whether they were enjoying themselves which was particularly important to me since I, as I mentioned, was not.

Eventually I finished reading and took my seat and drank Dr. Fiancé’s cocktail and then started to enjoy myself. A particular highlight was when one of my Writers-in-the-Schools colleagues came up and gushed, “Oh, my god! The onesies! I thought I was the only one so crazy about wanting to have babies! I love it!” I told her I’d already made note of her at our first work meeting and had flagged her as a future mom-friend, since she had a kid and I’ve heard it’s really hard to meet cool fellow moms. “Why wait?” she shrugged. “Let’s be mom friends now!”