My 11:45 appointment at the OB today turned into a 3-hour ordeal for no particular reason beyond the necessary adjustment to life with the local yokel doctor. (Bean is fine, even starting to look like a person instead of an amorphous blob, measuring on track, 10w3d.) This disrupted my high-maintenance eating schedule of snacks every 2-3 hours to stave off vomiting because only in the bizarro-world of the first trimester does frantically ripping the dry bagel out of the grocery bag before I’ve even left the parking lot serve as a remedy to uncontrollable dry heaving.
As you may have already inferred, my first stop post-doctor was the grocery store in search of something bland since our fridge is empty, cold cuts are off limits, and visions of all other forms of take-out made me, well, if I talk about it I might throw up. In my former life of lemon-dressed arugula salads and sesame-soy soba noodles, food shopping was a delight, lingering over the vivid colors and perfumes in the produce department, selecting the prettiest whole chicken to be roasted with garlic and rosemary. Not today. Today I strategically raced through like the protagonist in a video game, weathering the stinking fish of the seafood department while trying not to hurl in the pasta aisle, dodging slow-moving fellow shoppers to survive with nausea-quelling nourishment but without vomitous spectacle. As I slowly wilted in the check-out aisle under the peppermint stench of sugarless gum, I looked down at the belt–canned soup, tater tots, white-flour bakery rolls, frozen chicken pot pies, all the makings of a public school lunch menu–I thought I might have somehow morphed into a middle-aged bachelor.
Some day when I don’t spend nearly all my waking energy trying to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong, I will give this kid the nutrition he needs. For now, feeling sick and tired of feeling sick and tired is something that literally makes me cry sometimes, but the tears are probably just hormonal too!