Ah, the 18th week. Tomorrow we’ll have an ultrasound where we will *hopefully* find out the sex of Bebe, err, Pat.
I’m not getting my hopes up too high, though. Would you if you were given this handout by your office?:
Whatever. I get it. But the practice seems to be equally concerned with other youngsters getting freaked out by the darkness of the room. Obviously, in order for them to make such a stink about it, it must have been a problem in the past. This is my go-to explanation for any strange rule or warning. But like many other strange rules or warnings, these problems could probably be avoided if people just used their noggins once in awhile. Extenuating circumstances exempt, you should be familiar enough with your two-year-old by now to know that A, he’s afraid of the dark, B, it’s going to be dark (and pretty freaky, what with the baby globule hovering around on the monitor) in the ultrasound room so, C, you might want to arrange for him to sit this one out. It shouldn’t have to be printed on a handout. Just sayin’.
Moving on. I have unfortunately been experiencing some of the symptoms typically associated with the first trimester lately. They had been gone for months so I thought I had been getting off easy. But no.
Yesterday I got the full combo: headaches, dizziness, morning sickness, exhaustion, cravings. For some bizarre, ungodly reason, I decided that the day would be made that much better by a visit to Walmart.
What?! I’ve never told you about my *special* relationship with Walmart? Egads! How is it possible that I have been blogging for three months now and have never regaled you with a full explanation of how I deplore Walmart with every shred of my being?! Well, I do. But I can’t just footnote it in a post that is supposed to be about pregnancy. I am going to devote what will likely be a trilogy on my disdain for the Store of Stores in an upcoming segment. Promise.
Anyway, going to Walmart on such a day proved to be more than I could handle, and upon arriving home, I had my very first bona fide upchuck of my pregnancy. What a milestone.
My husband was extremely kind to me all day long (although when I threw up he said, “You know, I haven’t been feeling too well either.” OH REALLY? It must be that baby you’re growing in your belly.) But around dinner time he made a major misstep when he initially denied me my go-to pregnancy craving. The only thing I wanted was Subway, and when I told him that, he responded, “It’s getting kind of late.” (Read: Maybe if you had voiced this whim of yours earlier I would be more inclined to fulfill it.)
OH NO HE DID NOT.
You’ve got to be effing kidding me. Seriously? Some men have to hit the store at 1 AM for beef jerky and pickles and don’t think twice about it, but you’re going to make a deal out of me wanting a flippin’ sandwich at 7:30 PM?
Rage entered my swollen bosom and I went medieval on his arse.
And I got my sandwich, thankyouverymuch.