details, details.

Everybody wants to know about morning sickness. Well, I spent the first three weeks of my pregnancy with no obvious symptoms other than hot hands and feet. As someone with chronically frozen toes, this was a notable change. Around the time we started telling our parents about the pregnancy, I started feeling sicker and sicker. Then I quit my job, because I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. Or the afternoon. There were (and still are) a lot of days when I didn't shower or put on any clothes, let alone wash my hair, apply deodorant, or throw used tissues into a proper receptacle. At the worst times, I would spend several hours at a time contemplating the way the trees waved in the breeze outside of our bedroom window. In the evening, we would watch Jeopardy!, but I was too sick to guess answers. I lost a lot of weight. The exact amount is unknown, because the doctor's office claims my prepregnancy weight must be a mistake, since I couldn't possibly have lost as much weight as the difference indicates.

A couple of weeks ago I learned that pregnancy officially begins on the first day of your last period, not at the time the egg was technically fertilized. That two week jump in timing was the greatest cause for joy that I have known in years (it was in fact a bigger cause for joy than the actual discovery that I was pregnant; I admit this knowing that it may belittle the miracle of life and make me sound like a big pregnant wuss, but I'm living in a small bubble these days, and I take what I can get) as it meant moving two weeks closer to the end of my first trimester, when I'm supposed to feel much better. Well, achy and miserable still, but human, at least.

And here I sit on the precipice of 11 weeks, and although I power puked when I got out of bed this morning, I later managed to bathe (including washing my hair!), dress in almost completely clean clothes (I'm in one of only three pairs of pants that don't make me look like a ragdoll or Ed Grimley and I have technically worn them before, though never out of the house), and eat.

Eating is another endeavor altogether these days. I'm sick when I get up, and if I'm lucky enough to throw up, I'm left peckishly hungry until about 6 PM, when I start to crash back into a bloated, gassy, sour mound of discomfort. So I eat little snacky things all day long, trying to pick up whatever nutritious bits I can, and then greet my husband when he returns home from work hoping for dinner with the same news most every day: you're on your own, honey.