Cliche-ville


All the cliches are true. When you first made an appearance on the scene, I wanted pickles. I felt embarrassingly mainstream, but I really wanted them. I thought it would last forever. I even found a special expensive homemade kind of pickle at Formaggio Kitchen. Now I'm over pickles and onto queasiness. I had orange sherbert and ginger snaps for breakfast this morning. Doesn't that sound like fun? It really IS fun, it's fun and novel and overwhelming and interesting and hopeful and strange and human. I was too queasy to sleep past 3am. And that was hours after your dad woke me up talking in his sleep, saying, "Is there anything I can get you?" "No sweetie!" I said, charmed that he would sleep-talk so considerately. Eventually I moved onto the couch with Hazelnut to watch PBS and stop worrying that I was going to throw up in our bedroom. Sorry, but that cliche turns out to be true, too.

I was describing the constant queasiness to Jessica over phone, and she said, "That sounds awful! How long has this been going on?" "All week!" I said indignantly, and then realized that it was only partway through Tuesday. Just like babies develop fast, surprisingly fast (or so I've heard), a pregnancy seems to change and develop fast, surprisingly fast, too. Tomorrow I'll be at six weeks, halfway through my first trimester. Six more weeks until the hormones surge slows, things get easier, and I can tell people. Six weeks...seems so long and not so long, all at the same time. I read that you are growing from the size of a nail head to a blueberry this week. Frankly, an orange seed with a heart the size of a poppyseed sounds bigger than that, but whatevs. Hope you can stick it out.