Knocked Up Filter

I’ve added those of you who know my great secret to my “knocked-up” filter, so I can get more sympathy.

And today, I really need it. This has been my worst day yet. The key to its suckage is that right after I ate breakfast (Frosted Flakes — I may never be able to eat them again…), I threw breakfast right back up. Which is weird — usually I only throw up when I haven’t eaten anything and I’m hungry. More dry heaves, if you’re keeping score at home. But we had to get to work, and my stomach was still all woogly. So I left home with nothing in my belly.

The weird thing about morning sickness is that the hungrier you are, the less eating seems like a good idea. The key to not feeling ill is to eat often. So coming in to work, with an empty stomach, I felt AWFUL. I bought a bagel at Dunkin’ Donuts, because I knew that I had to had to had to eat something for breakfast. I stared at the bag with baleful eye for a good half hour, pondering the folly of even attempting to eat it. Summoning my will, I slathered on cream cheese. I took a bite. I nearly lost it again. I set the bagel aside.

Five minutes passed. I took another bite. Still not feeling happy.

Now I’m nearly all the way through the bagel (you never realize how difficult it is to eat a bagel until it’s, well, difficult), and feeling only partly dead. At 9:30 I didn’t see myself making it through today. I still can’t see myself doing any *work*, but it’s possible I will not die in the next few hours. That’s reassuring.

In other pregnancy news, my pants are fitting again. You see, about two weeks ago, all my pants seemed too tight at the waistline. It seems a little early for me to be showing, but apparently there’s something called “thickening” where your mid-section adds padding. Apparently my current adversarial relationship to food (see above) has counteracted that.


I always start getting hopeful this time of year. I blame it on the early springs of the balmy Northwest (my dad called to tell me he had just seen a tree in bloom), and on my innate optimism. Sometimes, this time of year, there are balmy days, where you can walk outside without a coat and not turn into a personcicle. Assuming you had less of it than 3 feet, the snow melts, and you can see ground. The days are noticeably longer. They start pulling out Puxstawny Phil, and DC boasts of it’s cherry blossoms. I notice the buds on the trees. Are they larger than yesterday? Redder? When they stand out against a blue sky, you can’t help but hope. They shed their snow and show their colors, and you thing surely, surely spring is coming soon.

About this time last year, I even planted seeds in my garden, in a particularly warm and optimistic patch.

Those of you from New England are laughing. I can hear it.

THIS is the bitter time of winter. In January, you know. You know that the weather is a fluke, and that spring is not here. You know that you need to buckle down to bear the winter as it is. But now, my internal clock tells me we must be nearly done. That daffodils and crocuses await. That the trillians are poking up in their dark lairs.

And my internal clock is dead wrong.

My friends, there are at least two more months of this. The snow will linger, melt, and fall again. The winds will shake the house with their bitterness. The red sugary promise of the tree buds will remain promise for a good time yet. Every week, I will think it is nearly spring. And every week it will not be.

Until that one week, when finally, it is.

Test Results

(Originally marked private. I’d totally forgotten about this!)

So my blood sugar came back low. Very low. Low enough that they scheduled me a standing appointment at a nearby hospital to get it retaken and make sure it’s not some glitch. Abnormally low, she said.

Personally, I buy her hypothesis that the sugar just degraded in the test tube. I think I’d know if I had dangerously low blood sugar levels. And for heaven’s sake, I had Frosted Flakes for breakfast not three hours before the blood draw. And the nurse who took it was a lousy phlebotomist. I could’ve done better.

But still, it sounds like I’ll need to scrap plans to go to Ash Wednesday service in favor of going to the hospital. Or maybe I can do both, but only if I make a tremendous sacrifice and leave work after 8 hours…

Seven weeks and change

(Originally marked private)

So we had the first doctor’s appointment today. It was pretty standard. Various bodily fluids, advice not to drink, smoke, do drugs or get X-rays. The dr. seems mellow, although he was somewhat annoyed at my pessimism. I felt rather justified in being pessimistic, with my family history of miscarriage. (Editor’s note: an rightly so!)

But he ordered an ultrasound, and so we went, and I was covered goop. And lo! There was a heartbeat! A little fluttery butterfly of a heartbeat! On the little lima bean of a baby! I have pictures, but they’re stills, obviously. So you can’t see the heart beat, and that’s the amazing part of it.

I am seven weeks and change, according to both the drs. and the ultrasound tech. Unfortunately, this puts the baby’s due date on an easy-to-remember September 23. That’s right, my birthday. I hope they miss by a little. I think a kid deserves a birthday of it’s own. Um, and I don’t wanna share.

It wasn’t stated explicitly, but looking at the pictures, there’s only one little bugger in there. Good to know.

Three weeks, and then I go back. But astonishingly, only 4 or so weeks after conception, I have a picture of our child.

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday is the day after tomorrow. I like Lent — I like the undistracted reflectiveness. Even the name of Lent to me, with my limited latin coming from a music background — sounds like lente… slow. Slow is appealing to me as I am now. The Adagio of Days is coming.

Of course, we won’t talk about how long it takes me to remember that Ash Wednesday is always preceded by Marti Gras. D’oh!