Knocked-uppedness is kind of gross, really.

I added one of those baby tickers to the sidebar over there, because I am nothing if not a sucker for a blog widget, and DAMN, that thing MUST be wrong. Seven weeks and five days (as of right now)? That's IT? No way, I say.

I guess the first rule of pregnant club is that you don't talk about pregnant club, especially when it goes surprisingly well. With Norah, it was like playing at being knocked up - I was never sick, the weight gain was mostly in my belly where it belonged (okay, yeah, and my puffy little cheeks, but that was kind of cute, right?) and labor was a fairly brief, only slightly painful experience. I tried not to gloat, because everyone hates a gloater, and I declared myself "just lucky" if anyone asked.

Well, thou shalt not declare thyself lucky, because thou shalt be proven a big fat bloated LIAR the second time around. I am lumpy. I am exhausted. And I have been tossing my cookies like it was my job. I can NOT. STOP. PUKING. Mornings, afternoons, midnight for the last three nights in a row - all are appropriate times to worship at the shrine of unpleasantness. I've tried avoiding certain foods, but this gets more complicated when you eventually have to avoid all foods. Apparently, even plain toast is enough to start the hamster wheel of vomit in my belly a'turnin'.

There is only one thing I can continue to eat, and it's the weirdest, nastiest food I can think of: sausage patties. Specifically, the Jimmy Dean ones that come precut in a flat little tray. Good lord, do I love sausage patties. I was in Target with Nonos, staring at the hot dogs she likes and trying really hard not to think about the churned-up ingredients in each one (and Mills, I know dogs are your favoritest, but I just couldn't handle it) and there were the sausage patties. I tasted them on my tongue, I smelled their fried goodness on the air, and zip! they went home with us. And we have not been parted since.

Friend Mills says this is revolting, and she's absolutely right. Ordinarily I am not a huge sausage fan, and prefer bacon on my breakfast buffet plate. But damned if I can stop with the patty goodness. They stay down, they soothe my hungry belly monster, they amp up my blood sugar while simultaneously providing some form of protein (I guess...) and I have not yet thrown them up, which is a definite bonus. I can't eat tomato soup, french fries, or (and how this hurts me to say it) Chick-Fil-A, because I've tossed 'em all - but me and my patties are still BFF.

My mother suggested that I write to the company and tell them this story, and maybe it would score me some coupons. Clearly I have pregnancy brain, because I hadn't thought of this, and it is utter genius! I'll keep you posted.

There is another plus side to the puking, aside from hopefully landing the free sausage - that the constant barfery means the little bugger is hanging on in there. Everyone has their special sickness-related theory: it means it's a boy, it means it's twins, it means it'll be big, small, funny, happy, born with a caul, God only knows. The only theory I subscribe to is that the hormones are still UP UP UP, and the risk is going down down down. That, and sausage.

In other news, my parents are coming on Saturday and we're busting a wall out of the cave our living room and putting in a window. Happy Thanksgiving to ME!


  1. um, excuse me. i hate to burst your little sausage bubble (which i totally understand, because my go-to food when i have a killer hangover are those Bob Evans sausage cheese egg biscuit things that you microwave, and they are so gross but SO good, and being pregnant is sort of like being hungover, right?) but as an eye witness to your first pregnancy, i can say that they must have given you some kind of amnesia shot when you gave birth. you puked all the time! you complained about being hurty and tired. you also ate a shitton of doughnuts... not that i had anything to do with that. anyway, i was THERE, man, and that's not how it happened.

    my mom told me that being so crazy about your kid makes you forget about the sucky part, because otherwise there's a good chance you can't do it again.

    dammit, i coulda used this whole comment as a blog of my own. quick side note before i leave: "barfery" is an awesome made up word.

    loooove, me

  2. Okay, I threw up a few times, but I'm telling you, Pats, it was NOTHING like this. This is horrible, all-day nausea. Like the worst hangover ever, but all the time. If I had felt like this before, Norah would not only be an only child, we would already be in therapy dealing with my resentment issues. Now that I know that the end result is pretty neato, I'm okay with it... But DAMN. DAAAAAMN.

    PS, ooo, sausage biscuit...

  3. The Commandments of Pregnancy
    1. Thou shalt have a relatively easy pregnancy the first go 'round. This encourages a second pregnancy so two people produce two kids and the world is kept in balance.
    2. Thou shalt have a PITA second pregnancy, which shall include much barfery and possibly colic after the birth. This helps you determine if you are mentally stable enough to do this again.

    Case in point: me and my older brother. I was a horrible infant. Hence, I am the youngest child. :)