Pregnancy is not glamorous. The celebrities make it look easy, fashionable and fantastic. In some ways, it is. The fashion part is much easier now that I fit into my vast maternity wardrobe compliments of my failed business. Plus, it’s true that the second trimester is like a jolt of energy. Unless you get the barfy flu – better known as the stomach flu.
Yes, last Thursday, I found myself praying to the porcelain god. That afternoon, my stomach hurt and I felt a little funny, but with pregnancy, that happens from time to time. I decided that getting home to bed would be the best cure, and my friend, who is a mom, agreed. She thought if I sipped some water and got some sleep I’d be fine. Oh how I wish she was right.
I sipped some water and finally retired to bed around 8:00. About an hour later, I ran to the bathroom, hand over my mouth. I thought, “Oh crazy pregnancy. I should feel better now that’s all out.” And I did for about a minute. Then it happened again. And again. And again. And again. Well, you get the point. I accepted defeat and made a camp in the bathroom.
Here’s the thing. I’ve had the barfy flu lots of times over the past few years (thank you, nieces). I can handle it. In some warped way, I think of it as a great ab workout and quick slim down. I mean, not eating for four days tends to take some weight off. But when you have someone riding shotgun in your belly, it takes on a whole, new terrifying identity.
First off, I was worried something would happen to the baby as she took the wild ride of being lifted up with everything else in my stomach. You know how when you throw-up your whole stomach heaves up? Well, it still does it with a baby in there. And then the baby slams down on your bladder. I don’t care how many kegels you do. The pressure is insane. So, not only was I puking my guts out, I lost control of my bladder. Humility at its best.
Luckily, Pete is a man of incredible strength and sweetness. I was sitting on the floor recovering from the first bout of retching, and I looked over at him.
“I pee-peed my pants.”
“That’s okay, Sweetie. It happens to everyone when they get old.”
“But I’m not old.”
“It’s still okay. Drink some water. You have to stay hydrated.”
I’m not sure if he was really trying to hydrate me or just make me so I’d pee my pants more, but I’m taking it as sweet not vengeful.
On a positive note, I am probably closer to the textbook weight gain recommendation since last month I gained nine pounds. Oh, and I can feel the baby kicking so she seems to have made it through unscathed.