It's time to share the news: My oven is full - Uterus oven that is - I'm baking a human in there. Yup, this lil' lady is almost 15 weeks prego, and it's been quite the interesting ride thus far. I suppose a highlight reel is in order, as it turns out being prego is kinda a big deal. First, Husbo and I found out about this lil' SURPRISE on our last day in New York. When we first arrived there, the smell of the street meat trucks made me salivate and I was oddly excited for our daily vendor adventure; however, by the second to last day, the meat trucks started making me gag, and I was convinced they were all conspiring against me and cooking up rotten dog food (hint number one). I also thought that some of the cocktails we were being served tasted like turpentine (hint two), and I would get random slam-me-in-the-face exhaustion (hint three)... And thus, after a particularly lovely meal, and before a weird late night show, the Husbo and I bought some pee on a stick tests. Husbo had them shoved in his pocket the rest of the night, and when we got back to the hotel he told me to take one. I refused, because for some reason I wanted my "pee to be potent" and convinced him I had to wait until the morning (when we were leaving).
The next morning when I got up, I took one of the tests. These things are expensive, and I'm a cheapo, so I bought the cheapest set of three... They're all the same right? WRONG. These stupid pee sticks were completely unreadable in their results: "what's a foggy plus sign mean? Is that a plus sign? Does that mean "kind of" pregnant?" Husbo came close to crazy, and force fed me water so that I ended up taking three tests in 30 minutes, all giving the same, cloudy, confusing results. At this point we had to leave, so it was onto the plane with us, and back to Houston, still unsure as to whether or not I had a human growing inside me. Upon our arrival, we went straight to the CVS, and the Husbo bought the most expensive, digital pee sticks he could find, and sped home. Basically he watched over me like a military man (I don't know if military men do that, but I feel like they would) as I peed, and we waited by the stick. Here's what it looked like:
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| Seems pretty clear |
Somehow we didn't believe it and took 4 more tests. They all read the same results: I'm a prego lady. For the next two weeks, I was nervous, but excited, and still unbelieving a little bit. I felt EXACTLY the same; I had bouts of feeling tired, and got thirsty a lot, but it's hot in Houston, and I'm a sweater. I even got a little cocky, and at our first doc appointment, at exactly 6 weeks, I stupidly said "I feel great! Not nauseas at all, super happy, all is well!" Idiot. The moment we left the doc's office, the metallic taste creeped up my throat, and the puking began.
I was one of those a-holes that said, "when I'm pregnant, I'm going to work out every day, and make sure I keep a normal life, and try and eat healthy blah blah blah". Some higher prego-powers heard me, gave me the finger, and a mean case of wanna-kill-yourself-nausea. Touché. 9 weeks later, I think things are starting to get better. Instead of all day nausea, where I couldn't even move my head without throwing up, I now have nighttime, and the occasional afternoon nausea visit. It got to the point where the Husbo was convinced I had the Ebola virus, and not just growing a Vampire Jubejube (that's what we've lovingly named our lil' growing human: It's sucking my blood, and is cute like a lil' jubejube. Fitting, no?), and the doc put me on some stuff that would help me keep my food down. Oh and this "healthy eating" ignorant goal of mine? All I could stomach for the past while has been potatoes, rice, crackers, toast, and eggs. And exercise? I tried the gym once: Got rage at everyones' smells (the Husbo calls me his blood hound because my smelling ability is uncanny - the police should hire me for their canine unit), almost passed out and started to cry when there were no magazines for me to read. Perfect.
On a high note, I have boobs for the first time ever. Do you know how many nights as a teenager I PRAYED for boobs?! Like literally bargained with the boob Gods: "I'll stop whining about not having my own phone line if you at least grant me a FULL A cup, and I'll always help old people across the street". Apparently my offer wasn't good enough, because at 29, I'm built like a 12 year old boy; until, that is, Vampire Jubejube came along, and granted me a full C of booby goodness. I have terrible boob etiquette though. I forget that bras are no longer "optional", and don't realize that my low cut shirts, which were once cute, are now slutty (Cleavage has a different effect than boney sternum turns out). The Husbo lives in fear of my wardrobe malfunctions, and has deemed all my bathing suits inappropriate. Another plus? My hair is LUSCIOUS - Silky, thick, and grows like crazy. I'll take it.
At this point, I'm at that awkward stage, where I don't look pregnant yet, but I have a weird pooch that looks like I just let myself go. Sometimes I'm tempted to tell randoms that "no, I'm not getting chubby, I'm growing a human a-holes", but the Husbo says, that would be weird, and that no one is thinking that. I'll take his word for it.
Dugg doesn't know about Jubejube yet. I think he'll be happy. I imagine he will fart.
xo T
