The eight-week whine
Eight weeks today, and definitely pregnant.
I am exhausted. Always exhausted. And the nausea, which I blithely, confidently assumed would be better this pregnancy than last--I'm not carrying triplets--has bludgeoned me. It started in earnest just after the six-week mark and now I am very nearly incapacitated by it, squeaking by each day out of pure necessity. It keeps me awake at night, rolls through me in waves as I drive to work, grows steadily through the day as I struggle through meetings and conference calls, then laughs at me and pulls back just a hair when I finally give in and say, Uncle!, You win!, I give!, Just let me throw up! Please! I just want to throw up! PLEASE! Somehow, the effort I made last time to not throw up, since I was supposed to be keeping down an ungodly number of calories, has blunted my ability to hurl when I really, really want (need?) to.
Sadly, the nausea is at its zenith when Olivia is nursing, with her warm weight pressing into my belly. Nursing is something I had come to love, and now it is a rather, um, sore subject. The pregnant nips, they do not like the nursing. It hurts almost as much as it did during those first couple of weeks postpartum, except for the blessed lack of engorgement. But I can manage it, and the thought of giving up makes me very, very sad. That bond with her is something I do not want to lose just yet. As a compromise, I have eliminated the pumping. During the day, Olivia, now ten months old, couldn't care less whether she's given bottles of hard-won mother's milk or swills haphazardly-mixed formula, though she does still love to nurse. Which she does two or three times a day, or more often on weekends.
I read up on being pregnant and nursing and everything seems to indicate that it will do neither of them any harm--that the only one who stands to suffer by it is me. So my lofty and ambitious goal for the next month or two will be to get enough nutrition in me for the three of us while battling the urge to eat nothing at all, ever. Any helpful ideas you lovely ladies in the computer may have on how to get iron into my diet without supplements or daily ingestion of a 16-ounce Porterhouse would be much appreciated. The supplements make me even more nauesated, and, while I love a good steak, I do not love a good steak every single day. I'm trying to eat a fortified cereal each morning, but nothing about it appeals right now and it makes it very hard to finish a grown-up portion when everything in you is screaming, Stop!
So, enough with the whinging. If I didn't have nausea, I'd be whinging that I didn't feel pregnant enough. I love knowing that something is going on in my body, that this exciting, terrifying process is taking place. And on that subject, I must admit to you that the terror is slightly less tangible this time. Not because I am suddenly an optimist, but because it feels like an unearned bonus, a windfall. If someone were to tell me it was all a mistake, I would be very disappointed, very sad, but I wouldn't feel cheated.
Perhaps the terror will grow as my attachment to this fetus/embryo/fetbryo grows. Being on the "normal" calendar with my OB, there aren't the weekly ultrasounds to put a picture to the pregnancy. The next one, in fact, will be the NT scan early next month, unless something bad happens first.
In the meanwhile, I'm still shocked--every day--to find myself here.