There cannot be anything worse than puking bright yellow bile for two hours and then being accosted by the overwhelming stench of garlic wafting from the pantry door. Yes, welcome to my morning. Maybe it’s time to ditch garlic for the next six months.
As I finish up the first trimester of my second pregnancy–yes, this time I am a bit older and tubbier–I long for the days when I was pregnant with my daughter. I don’t remember it being this bad, and that is not the it’s-been-so-long-I’ve-forgotten-how-bad-it-can-be brain lapse. In fact, I kept a journal of my pregnancy with Reagan, and I was able to go to college full-time as a senior and work thirty-five hours per week. How the hell did I do that? Oh. Wait. I was only twenty-four.
I thought I was supposed to be glowing. I recall people saying that pregnancy is beautiful. But at thirty-two (yes, I know that is not TOO old), I’m feeling my age. And then some.
Don’t get me wrong–I’m excited to add another member to the Thomas family, but I have the feeling that this kid is going to be a handful! Between the sickness and its acrobatics in my tummy at the ultrasound, I’m a little worried.
I always heard women say that every pregnancy is different. Well. Add one more believer to that sentiment.
That being said, when I saw the baby’s little legs and twirling body on the ultrasound, I was in love. Call me a bit of a cliché writer, but it clicked for me. Sure, I loved my daughter at those moments during my first pregnancy, but I think now that I have grown up a bit, I really appreciate the beauty of life. Perhaps that is also due to my post-childbirth experiences.
But either way, the garlic has to go.