I’ve always wondered why they call it morning sickness. I’ve never had just morning sickness. In my experience it is morning, noon, and night sickness. Any hour of the day, I could toss my cookies to the crows that roost in Yuba City. Last night I was at our son’s soccer game in the river bottoms. Of course I had to use the bathroom because this is another constant thing in my pregnant life right now, and the port-a-potty was about the nastiest thing I have ever seen. After stepping into that furnace of feces, I fell out of the blue, plastic, bomb drop gasping for air with my eyes ablaze. I then drove to a nearby Taco Bell. I made this trip three times during the game. Twice for me and once for our two-and-a-half-year-old who would much rather pee on a tree, but since we were in public, I thought it best to return to the nice Bell bathroom.
It’s all coming back to me now: why pregnancy and I do not get along. My husband keeps telling me how cute I am. How he loves it when I’m pregnant. “You’re so focused,” he said to me today with a big smile. “What is going through your mind, Babe?”
“Throwing up on you,” I told him.
He laughed. “But you haven’t thrown up yet,” he said.
“That’s because I’m focused on not throwing up. But if you don’t stop smiling at me, I promise to throw up on you.”
I know. I know. I called my prayer partner Kay this morning. “You’ve got to pray for me,” I told her. “I’m having the hardest time being sweet right now. Everything is irritating me. I’m irritated that I’m irritated.”
“Your hormones are raging,” she offered.
“Is that a good excuse to be irritated with people at Taco Bell?”
“Of course not. Let me pray for you.”
So she prayed for me and I still wanted to throw up on my husband and the people at Taco Bell.
My husband is giddy over this pregnancy. Giddy like I’ve never seen him. Already he’s leaning over talking to my stomach. I’m two months along and to my distress back in maternity jeans, but really, I told my better half today, “I don’t even think the baby has ears yet. You’re talking to yourself, dear.”
I never call my husband “dear.” I hate that term. It reminds me of a retirement home, which reminds me that I will be over sixty years old when this baby graduates high school.
Right now my hubby really is the better half. I did not say “dear” lovingly. I was thinking more along the lines of: if you don’t stop talking to my stomach you will be roadkill deer, dear.
I called my prayer partner back this afternoon, but she wasn’t home. I was going to ask her to pray for me some more. Heaven knows I need it.
I’m ready to call the governor and take him to task over something he said today. “You’re never like this,” said my husband. “Since when do politics upset you?”
“Forget it. I won’t call him. I’ll just drive down to Sacramento and throw up on him. He got his wife pregnant a bunch of times too.” Four times, but after you break the three kid barrier, everyone has a say in the matter.
Truthfully, I’ve been walking around repeating over and over, “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” I did this during my last pregnancy too. I never envisioned myself pregnant again in my forties. Only movie stars and Looney Toons get pregnant in their forties.
Since I’m already in maternity jeans and have seven months to go, I decided yesterday to hit eBay to see if I could find another pair of my favorite fat pants. Problem is, my favorite fat pants are expensive. I like Seven of all Mankind. Serendipity, I just realized that my favorite maternity jeans have seven splashed across the pockets. Perfect since this is baby number seven for this Looney Toons lady.
So I get on eBay, find my size and style, and go to battle. Of course I lose. I back out at thirty dollars. I haven’t paid more than twenty-five dollars for a pair of jeans for myself in ages. Just last week, I paid thirty dollars for a pair of jeans for our twelve year old son who is starting junior high this month. I remember how badly I wanted Calvin Kleins in the seventh grade so I caved at the mall with my son. But his cool jeans came with a warning. “Wear them around your waist or I will duct tape them under your armpits.”
See, I told you I’ve been struggling with being sweet. Speaking of sweet, this is how sweet God is. Today I stopped by the local consignment store to look for a pair of jeans I could enjoy wearing and there they were: my size, my style, the same Seven maternity jeans I tried to get on eBay yesterday. For twenty-four dollars they were mine. Thank you, Lord, for being so good to me even when I am not good. Not good at all.
So back to morning, noon, and night sickness. It’s night now and I could seriously throw up. I’m already in my flannel pajamas because even my Seven maternity jeans felt uncomfortable an hour ago. For the past three days, I’ve had a filet of fish sandwich from McDonald’s for lunch. Under normal conditions, I wouldn’t touch one of these greasy, fishy buns if I was on the last leg of the Donner Party, but I’m hoping to have one tomorrow. Our son has another soccer game in the morning. This one in Sacramento. Perhaps during the game, I could stop in at McDonald’s, use the bathroom, pick up a filet of fish, then head on over to the capitol building and throw up. Don’t get me wrong, I still respect authority. I’ll only aim for Arnie’s shoes.