So lots going on the in the world right now -- Fidel Castro dead, Ohio State students getting carved up, government in transition -- and I'm just surfacing to say I'm alive, and...
Wait, where have I used that formula about "just surfacing" before? Hm, don't know, could it be one of the five times I've been pregnant while writing this blog? Not all the times I've been pregnant, you understand; only five. There are women out there begging, pleading with God to let them have a baby, just once, and I'm throwing up through my nose for the seventh time. I asked God about this, but he replied in a small still voice I couldn't hear over my own gagging.
So: we don't always get what we want, but we get what we need. Physically, I didn't want or need to be pregnant; already my body is sustaining wear and tear that's going to take further years, if ever, to undo. Mentally? not what I was planning for, to be sure. So it's spiritually that I needed to be pregnant, except you can't just be spiritually pregnant. There has to be a physical component, the component of actually growing the baby in your body. Baby is growing, thriving probably, taking the nutrients he or she needs from me, and I give, will I or no: my time, my energy, my health. Mine, mine, mine, only not mine anymore.
There and Back Again: A Guide to Food the Second Time Around
Cottage Cheese: curdy, acidic. Not recommended.
Chicken Stir-Fry: chew well, lest you see chunks.
Popcorn: the worst, especially in your nose.
Waffles: a winner! Nice and soft, non-irritating.
I'm going to go to the doctor, eventually. I don't see the rush to go in and hear that I'm pregnant and Advanced Maternal Age, and would I like some extra tests? I haven't even decided whether I want to go with the midwife or with a doctor. There's no hurry. To be honest, I'm leaning toward a doctor and a hospital. I've had six unmedicated births, but I'd kind of like to be put completely under this time, maybe for the next seven months, and just have a baby handed to me at the end.
Let me be clear: I love babies. I love this baby, all 0.7 ounces of it. (A eight-week baby is the size of a peanut M&M, did you know?) But I hate hate being pregnant, and after six times I don't feel like a pro. I feel worn down with being constantly nauseous and tired, and with having a softening, thickening, atrophying body -- and that's not even taking into account the coming day of torture. I'm not even thinking that far ahead.
Yeah, I said all on the blog the last time around, and probably the three times before that, too. The world may be changing, but some things remain constant.
Standing on the edge of the groove
1 hour ago