The first trimester of my pregnancies sure aren't a walk in the park. Granted, I don't vomit (which I will forever thank God for) but I do feel extremely tired – like wild African elephant that's been shot with five tranquilizer darts before movement to captivity tired. Seriously, seriously tired. On top of that, the constant nausea is wearing. I've used a few tricks this go-round that have really helped to alleviate some of the aching in the ‘ol belly, but regardless of home-remedies, the nausea still lingers until around week twelve.
Forget about eating chicken. Or feeling that deep satisfaction after a good meal. Instead, it's back to the post-flu diet of granola, toast, crackers, bananas, and cheese. Mild foods that sit easily on the belly.
The constant hunger is also a battle – because I don't really feel like eating anything – and yet every ninety minutes, I get that low-blood-sugar-feeling and start scavenging through the cupboard like a hungry rodent.
After acquiring a snack that won't satisfy my mind but will satisfy my belly (at least for the next hour and a half), said tranquilized-nauseous-elephant wanders over to her favorite, squishy chair. Said squishy chair happens to sit in the late morning sunshine from the window (a really bad combination for a tranquilized elephant who is trying terribly hard to stay awake to begin with.
Tranquilized Mommy monster sits and nibbles on her cheese.
Before long, the three year old comes over. “Whatcha got, Momma? Can I have some?” Sure baby. Of course. Here. Eat my cheese. It's not like I need it.
Then the one year old spots the cheese. Oooh. He loves cheese.
All of the Mommy elephant's cheese is soon consumed by her small army, only a few lone crumbs linger on the floor. Big bites of the cheese are washed down with delicious raw milk from Sally Belle, only to be spit up and spilled on the couch pillows.
“Maybe the dog will be kind enough to lick it off once he comes inside”, tranquilized Mommy thinks. Because Lawd knows she doesn't have enough energy to get up and wipe it up herself.
Still-hungry Mommy manages to muster enough of her still-depleting-energy to take off her tennis shoes so that she can further curl up in this deliciously comfortable (and sunny) chair she is enjoying at the moment. But wait… what's this?
Even she is appalled at the horrendous choice of socks and shoes. One brown sock, with a tennis shoe. One black sock, with a tennis shoe. Both socks are Stuart's work socks. Neither of them is a good choice to wear with sneakers.
She'd hang her head in shame, but she's too tired. And hungry. And nauseous. So instead, she lowers her foot back down and wears them, exactly like that, for the rest of the day.
It's only at this point that the fully sedated elephant Mommy realizes that her youngest baby is without clothes. Again. It wasn't until the oldest shouted “Mommy, Owen's playing with his ‘thing' again!” that she even realized her children were still in the room. She was, after all, sedated with this pregnancy hormone.
She stared at baby elephant. Should she get up and put clothes on him? Was it physically possible to pull herself out of this chair and it's warm sunshine, walk with her mismatched socks and horrendously chosen tennis shoes, to the bathroom – almost 20 feet away? Forget about it. He can be naked. He can play with his thing. She didn't care. As long as, for this brief moment, she could sit.
Even with her eyes at half-mast, Momma could still see the toys peeking out from the computer desk. Perhaps, she should get up and put them away? They were, after all, the tip of the iceberg – no less than 1,592,375 lego pieces littered the floor under her feet.
Alas, she passed on that fun endeavor.
Her eyes were opened once again to half-mast when Princess “Rapunzel/Georgia/Cinderella/Elsa/Anna” requested a viewing of her newest dance.
Even a tranquilized-nauseous-hungry Momma elephant can't pass up the opportunity to watch this newest dance (for the 6,183 time that day). These moments, are as they so often remind us, fleeting.
Though luckily, when you watch something 6,183 times in a single day, it becomes pretty etched in one's mine.
Sneak attack from ground level. Sleepy, pregnant elephants aren't very fast on their feet and one year olds capitalize on such slow response times. He knows. Oh, he knows. He knows he can snatch things from my hand when I'm in my hormone-induced-coma. He also knows that I'm too lazy to get him dressed on occasion. But he loves the nakedness, don't let him fool you.
And even though she's pretty sure she'll never recover from the loss of energy she feels at this moment, and she's pretty sure she'll never be able to eat chicken again, and she's pretty sure that she'll always have to eat pieces of bread at 2:00 a.m., and she's pretty sure that the nausea with never-ever-ever-ever go away, she knows it will.
She knows that in a few weeks, she'll forget the pain. She'll get a bit more energy. Feel a bit perkier. She'll start to think, “Oh, now that wasn't SO bad. I guess I could do it again.” She'll eagerly look forward to the baby's movements. She'll anticipate the birthday and start picking out names.
And then she'll go through childbirth again.
And seriously question her sanity.