I’m not sick yet, unless you call profound tiredness and sudden queasiness sick. But I have not actually vomited. Which suits me fine. I think I’ve only vomited once in the last six years and it was the pitiable result of some particularly heavy drinking after a bad replica of what was meant to be Cajun food in Oklahoma City. Never eat Cajun food in Oklahoma City, and certainly don’t expect to get away with drinking heavily afterward.
But I digress. I’m not a vomiter, so maybe I’ll stay not a vomiter. But I do get something – I can only describe it as a burning eruption of quease in the pit of my stomach at the slightest HINT of hunger. I’ve been working on losing weight for the last couple of months, successfully. So I’ve adjusted to smaller meals and the sensation of hunger around the next mealtime. And usually I can ignore it until a suitable time to eat. Not anymore. At the first quiver of mental awareness of hunger, my stomach lurches like a match against a sidewalk and sets off a blaze of painful queasiness that makes me think lava must be about to rise out of there to consume my esophagus. A couple of nights ago this agony woke me from my Sleep-of-the-Dead and drove me to the kitchen where I blindly taste-tested several of the handiest edibles in hopes of finding a remedy. Leftover bratwurst: oh-hell-no. Peanut butter and dried cranberries: yes-thank-you-God. Two spoonfuls and two glasses of water later I fell back into bed, wrapped myself around my sorry belly and returned to velvet slumber.
That’s the gig now. Keep food on hand at all times lest hunger strike unexpectedly.
There’s one other thing that needs to be said. Because the books are wrong. They all say you won’t be wanting any sex in early pregnancy. That’s not true. Rest assured amorous mamas everywhere, the books don’t know it all.