Pregnancy Update Whether You Wanted One Or Not

I have kindly spared you the gory details of my pregnancy for almost five whole posts, and I thought I could go a little longer, maybe one or two more paragraphs, tops, but the urge is just too overwhelming and I can’t wait one more second to scream in all caps with an exclamation point and a little bit of alliteration:


For several weeks I honestly thought I would never be able to say that again, let alone feel it. I come from a long line of Southern women who were sick the entire nine months of their pregnancies, my mother and sister included, and although I was the first woman in my family stubborn enough to reject the whole notion of pantyhose, I suspected that I would be forced through defective genes to suffer 40 weeks of incessant gut-churning, face-contorting, nacho cheese Dorito laden vomit.

My nausea only lasted 13 weeks, exactly as long as my doctor said it would. But I haven’t been able to take my doctor seriously, primarily because at my last check-up he introduced himself to my husband by saying, “Last time she was in here she didn’t know who the father was. Have you guys figured that out yet?” This type of bedside manner may be funny on a sit-com where Jennifer Anniston is pregnant with a pillow stuck up her shirt, but in real life, the kind of real life that involves me and my super-attentive husband of fiery Scottish descent who is about to hear his first child’s heartbeat for the very first time, this type of bedside manner CAN CAUSE A HEART ATTACK.

This is the same doctor who told me that the only thing he could prescribe for nausea was an anal suppository — you know, the type of suppository that has to be inserted ANALLY. My life-long battle with constipation has been well chronicled on this website, so I don’t need to go into any of the details about how, from time to time, more often than not, especially recently as the entire chemistry of my body morphs spasmodically into a host organism, I lose all ability to poop. Sometimes I just misplace the ability like I misplace car keys, under the bed or in between the cushions in the sofa, and after a few hours of looking I’m back to normal and can start the car again. But usually my ability to poop goes missing entirely, not unlike Jimmy Hoffa, disappearing without a trace, perhaps to pursue a life in hiding, more likely than not abducted and killed by the Mafia. The LAST THING my body needs is additional rectal baggage. Anally-inserted suppository, MY ASS.

Did I mention that I feel better?