Evolutionarily speaking, morning sickness is intended to protect the baby's newly developing organs from toxins that our adult bodies handle on a regular basis.
So, from my experience, yogurt is toxic, as is juice, along with soup, fruits, vegetables, carbs, meat, and finally, water (my husband has suspected this last one for years, refusing to drink more water on the basis that it's "corrosive") Needless to say, our baby is super protected. It's a wonder that the baby gets any nutrition at all. As someone who used to finish my husband's meals, it's weird being disgusted at the most basic and beloved of foods. And, if it's not one end, it's the other!
I never thought I would propose body fluids as a topic of conversation, but pregnancy makes one lose all modesty. Along with protecting the baby from these so called "toxins", nausea is apparently a sign of a healthy pregnancy, as women who don't feel any sickness are much more likely to have a miscarriage. Based on how I've been feeling, I must be about to birth Superman or Wonderwoman. Since there is no way to avoid these feelings, as none of the suggested natural remedies actually go so far as to work. I'll just continue to lay on the couch and place blame on others.
I can't really blame my husband, because we sort of planned this together, and he's been trying really hard to accommodate my new eating and sleeping habits. I can't blame the baby, because we're the reason it's here. And, I'm not sure I blame the food industry, seeing as I really don't think our food is toxic. So, who is left to blame? Well, biblicly speaking, Eve and her little apple incident led to labor pains. I assume that includes all ills of pregnancy. So, I blame Eve.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
To Tell or Not to Tell...
That was, is and seems to always be the question. And, it's so complicated. I encounter a dude I went to college with on the street. Do I tell him?
Perhaps even more of a conumdrum is that I'm going to a wedding tomorrow of a friend from high school. This is a big problem. You see, it is common knowledge that the wedding is all about two people [who am I kidding, I mean two women]: the bride and her mother. That's it. everyone else just needs to tow the line. As a side note, I don't think I remember much from my wedding. Someone once asked me what our colors were, and I said I wasn't sure, but I remember that I wore black and white.
The point is that, tomorrow I am neither a bride nor a mother. Therefore, the wedding is not about me. Are you following me so far? Arguably, the only thing more exciting than a wedding is a baby. Certainly I don't have any business doing or saying something that would draw attention away from either the bride or her mother. And believe it or not, I'm not too much of an attention uh.. uh.. guy.
Sufficeth to say that I'm not very good at discriminating when to tell and when not to tell. So here's what I've decided. I'm just going to tell people when they ask me what's going on. This makes it easy because it means I've always got something to talk about. Case in point; that old buddy I saw on the street from college. He says to me, "Hey man, what's going on?"
So I say, "Not much, except my wife is pregnant." It's great; I can drag that conversation out for, at least, a few minutes. Certainly long enough for some small talk on the street; works pretty well. Hey, maybe I should propose to my wife that we always be pregnant...then we'll always have something to talk about.
Perhaps even more of a conumdrum is that I'm going to a wedding tomorrow of a friend from high school. This is a big problem. You see, it is common knowledge that the wedding is all about two people [who am I kidding, I mean two women]: the bride and her mother. That's it. everyone else just needs to tow the line. As a side note, I don't think I remember much from my wedding. Someone once asked me what our colors were, and I said I wasn't sure, but I remember that I wore black and white.
The point is that, tomorrow I am neither a bride nor a mother. Therefore, the wedding is not about me. Are you following me so far? Arguably, the only thing more exciting than a wedding is a baby. Certainly I don't have any business doing or saying something that would draw attention away from either the bride or her mother. And believe it or not, I'm not too much of an attention uh.. uh.. guy.
Sufficeth to say that I'm not very good at discriminating when to tell and when not to tell. So here's what I've decided. I'm just going to tell people when they ask me what's going on. This makes it easy because it means I've always got something to talk about. Case in point; that old buddy I saw on the street from college. He says to me, "Hey man, what's going on?"
So I say, "Not much, except my wife is pregnant." It's great; I can drag that conversation out for, at least, a few minutes. Certainly long enough for some small talk on the street; works pretty well. Hey, maybe I should propose to my wife that we always be pregnant...then we'll always have something to talk about.
Monday, September 17, 2007
The End of an Era...
Historians and archeologists have fancy names for the planet’s time periods: Paleolithic, Mesozoic, Byzantine. I think I mark the periods of my life with the vehicles I drive, and with little fanfare or hoopla, I bid a bittersweet adu to the Jetta era. The Jetta era began right after college and the trial filled Plymouth Sundance era. Long had I dreamt of driving a brand new car off the lot, and since I had a “real job”, my ship, or car as it were, had come in. Oh so sassy, so zippy, was its silver sleekness. And, that’s how my life felt. College degree—check, husband—check, great job—check. I was a DINK in the city, pretty much able to do what I wanted, when I wanted. Then, as only a major catastrophe can do, the Jetta era ended.
It was neither meteor shower nor plague, earthquake nor flood that brought the Jetta era to and screeching halt. The screeching was actually due to another car slamming into the side of my beloved Jetta as I was in a little too much of a hurry to turn left. So, the sudden end of the Jetta era gave way to the equivalent of the automobile dark ages, also known as Evil Jetta era. Insurance never pays out what it should, and thus, the replacement Jetta was slightly less than sleek. But, it was mere months after bringing home Jetta Jr. that its true colors started showing, and we called the tow truck for the first time. Then, the windows stopped rolling down. My husband, being the oddly frugal man he is, refused to have them fixed as they weren’t an essential function of the car. Say what? Have you ever tried to live without drive throughs for a year and a half? It may save you money, but it’s not worth it! Oh, and the windshield was cracked in two places, and no, not an essential function of the car…Which brings us to a year and a half post window malfunction. After calling a tow truck for the 4th time in 18 months (do they have punch cards?) we have declared a cue on the Evil Jetta regime, and by joining with our ally Craigslist, have banished the inept dictator.
Enter the era of the Subaru Outback. Oh, my sixteen year old self would be mocking my 29 year old self. A station wagon?!? Really? My deer husband has had a mancrush on Outbacks for years, and they make a good surf-mobile. In addition, and perhaps most importantly, it is a practical family vehicle. Yes, that’s right, “family”. Goodbye DINKhood. Hello, OIOK (that comes dangerously close to OINK…not a funny joke around a pregnant woman). Yes, that’s right, ready or not, we’re expecting. So, goodbye sassy, hotty car. Close curtain on DINKdom. Hello, practical family vehicle. And between intermittent vomiting, feeling as if I’m going to vomit, and eating to prevent vomiting I’m enjoying the fresh air and cool breeze that can only be created by rolling down the windows.
It was neither meteor shower nor plague, earthquake nor flood that brought the Jetta era to and screeching halt. The screeching was actually due to another car slamming into the side of my beloved Jetta as I was in a little too much of a hurry to turn left. So, the sudden end of the Jetta era gave way to the equivalent of the automobile dark ages, also known as Evil Jetta era. Insurance never pays out what it should, and thus, the replacement Jetta was slightly less than sleek. But, it was mere months after bringing home Jetta Jr. that its true colors started showing, and we called the tow truck for the first time. Then, the windows stopped rolling down. My husband, being the oddly frugal man he is, refused to have them fixed as they weren’t an essential function of the car. Say what? Have you ever tried to live without drive throughs for a year and a half? It may save you money, but it’s not worth it! Oh, and the windshield was cracked in two places, and no, not an essential function of the car…Which brings us to a year and a half post window malfunction. After calling a tow truck for the 4th time in 18 months (do they have punch cards?) we have declared a cue on the Evil Jetta regime, and by joining with our ally Craigslist, have banished the inept dictator.
Enter the era of the Subaru Outback. Oh, my sixteen year old self would be mocking my 29 year old self. A station wagon?!? Really? My deer husband has had a mancrush on Outbacks for years, and they make a good surf-mobile. In addition, and perhaps most importantly, it is a practical family vehicle. Yes, that’s right, “family”. Goodbye DINKhood. Hello, OIOK (that comes dangerously close to OINK…not a funny joke around a pregnant woman). Yes, that’s right, ready or not, we’re expecting. So, goodbye sassy, hotty car. Close curtain on DINKdom. Hello, practical family vehicle. And between intermittent vomiting, feeling as if I’m going to vomit, and eating to prevent vomiting I’m enjoying the fresh air and cool breeze that can only be created by rolling down the windows.
This is hurting my ego...
As if I was a good cook before. Now she throws everything up that I cook. It's starting to hurt my ego.
Okay, the truth is I'm not a great cook. I've got a couple specialties in my repertoire, mind you. I can bake chicken like you wouldn't believe. And, as long as you don't mind putting it in the microwave after it's out of the oven, it is/can be quite tasty. On a side note, what would us dudes do without microwaves. I swear, I wouldn't be able to make it through the week. I'm going to venture to guess that it was a man that invented it.
Of course, I can barbecue. But, what guy can't barbecue? I think it must be some sort of code written on the DNA of every man so that he, instinctively, knows what to do when he holds a spatula and a pair of tongs in his hand.
What's frustrating about the entire situation is there does not appear to be any pattern in any of this. Case in point, she doesn't seem to throw the baked chicken up, but once you put chicken in a salad, get her to the toilet. On the other hand, she doesn't seem to hold the beef down in a hamburger form, so I figured I'd be safe with the stew. Unfortunately, no. Clear the bathroom.
So, here I am sitting on my couch trying to figure out what to feed her the rest of the week; at least the days when I'm cooking. At the risk of sounding rather insensitive here, I never puke the stuff that she cooks. Of course, I'm not carrying a child in my womb--do I have a womb? It just doesn't make sense that something so small can cause such a great deal of trouble.
Still, I'm not going to tell her that out loud. I'm starting to think, maybe, I should just lose the ego. At the very least, I know I should lose the fish sticks...she definitely doesn't hold those down at all.
Okay, the truth is I'm not a great cook. I've got a couple specialties in my repertoire, mind you. I can bake chicken like you wouldn't believe. And, as long as you don't mind putting it in the microwave after it's out of the oven, it is/can be quite tasty. On a side note, what would us dudes do without microwaves. I swear, I wouldn't be able to make it through the week. I'm going to venture to guess that it was a man that invented it.
Of course, I can barbecue. But, what guy can't barbecue? I think it must be some sort of code written on the DNA of every man so that he, instinctively, knows what to do when he holds a spatula and a pair of tongs in his hand.
What's frustrating about the entire situation is there does not appear to be any pattern in any of this. Case in point, she doesn't seem to throw the baked chicken up, but once you put chicken in a salad, get her to the toilet. On the other hand, she doesn't seem to hold the beef down in a hamburger form, so I figured I'd be safe with the stew. Unfortunately, no. Clear the bathroom.
So, here I am sitting on my couch trying to figure out what to feed her the rest of the week; at least the days when I'm cooking. At the risk of sounding rather insensitive here, I never puke the stuff that she cooks. Of course, I'm not carrying a child in my womb--do I have a womb? It just doesn't make sense that something so small can cause such a great deal of trouble.
Still, I'm not going to tell her that out loud. I'm starting to think, maybe, I should just lose the ego. At the very least, I know I should lose the fish sticks...she definitely doesn't hold those down at all.
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