Breathe

During my journey to conceive, I forgot to consider one important pang. Pregnancy. That's right, the actual labor of pregnancy. I was naive to think that it would it would be a hop, skip and a jump to baby dome. I was to busy lollygagging with my ovulation contraption that I was oblivious to the nine months stint. My continuous bout with my first trimester has not been poppies and sunshine. I have discovered a mélange of particulars that stick out like an elephant at a mice convention.

My "no alcohol" policy excludes me from most social activities. I get no kicks in watching friends drown in intoxication while I sit there with my arm floaties trying to keep up with the nonsensical conversations of the inebriated. I don't mind attending a dinner party, that's a picnic. It's the large dinners that's ruled by cocktails, where it gets muddled. It's like a David Lynch film, any moment I'm waiting for the midget to pop in and start conversing in gibberish. It's no fun! Although I don't want to be sorted out as stern and uptight, the silent one. Worse, I am socially inept, and distracted by daydreams of a down comforter, eight hundred thread count sheets, a bowl of warm soup, and a good book. There's a word for that and it's a home body. Gross.

Shellie's Proverb: Happiness is waking up without a hang over.
"Excuse me sir, you've got your narcolepsy in my nausea! I'm sorry sir, but you have that backwards, you have your nausea in my narcolepsy!" Despite everything, my lack of vim is ruthless. Working in this weary state is a hoot, coherence is as absolute as the Easter bunny. Really. Truthfully. It's like I'm waist deep in quick sand. Regardless, at work my margin for error is nil, hence making my job even more brutal. Here's where being a house wife would be plush and candy. Since my nausea has been jilted by ginger root, nausea gently retaliates it's revenge by being the master mind behind my temperamental appetite. My hunger have been deceived with distasteful suggestions like burgers, fries and strawberry milkshakes. Do you understand that my body has not processed the atrocities of fast food in three years? Three years! Saturday, I was weak and gave in to temptation, I made haste to McDonald's. I gorged a filet o' fish and small fries in two thousand volts flat. Saturday, I mourned the first upheaval of my healthy and conscious state.

The most vile of all evils is the overlord Queen Hormone that rules all with a vengeance. I have cried more in the last month than I have in the past five years over trivial subjects like, "Candy corn should be available year round?" When I really should be more concerned about why my bowel movements have gone awry. I am conscious of my heightened sensitivity and how it effects me, but it reigns my emotions with a tight fist. Maybe padded walls and a straight jacket isn't so bad. The best I can do is isolate myself to uphold my self preservation. Until I feel somewhat normal, this hormonal war is not over.

Meanwhile on planet restless, my frequent yearning to urine in the middle of the night is trying. Shellie, the person that held the world's record of pee holding, has fallen to the rubbles of my bladder. There's nothing like the interruption of a good nights rest with the urge to splurge. Speaking of etiquette, I won't even mention the term constipation. I mean it must come out some time, right?

Pregnancy is thrilling, but certainly toilsome from the social aspect to the toilet facet, my hands are full. I am purely grateful for having such a lovely husband, awesome friends, and a family that is stoked out of their mind! There's so much to look forward to and all I can hear is mom's homogenous religious blurbs, "if god permit." I have a long way to go with an arduous haul to bear. Eventually, I hope to take on the positive side of pregnancy and flourish and enjoy the experience, if god permit.

Lesson: Young Grasshopper must never be fooled by the calm waters of the river.