After playing blog hooky for two months, I’m suddenly intimidated by this blinking cursor. Blink, blink, blink. Relentlessly compelling me to peck out something. Does it have to blink like that? I wonder if it’s one second between blinks. Can you adjust that setting somewhere? It should be longer so that the thing isn’t so insistent.
What, you think I’m stalling? Maybe. It’s been a while. I’ve got to warm up.
Most of you know by now, we are joyfully expecting another little Farris, Number Three, to enter our family in 2013. Three months down, six to go. With the advent of pregnancy came a heavy case of writer’s block like none I had ever known. All my fun thoughts and ideas got swept into the current of More Important Things – things that I might share, one day, but for now am treasuring up in my heart.
And floating around in the current of More Important Things were two of my old companions from the first two times around the block, Nausea and Fatigue. I hope to bid them goodbye soon, but they don’t seem to want to leave just yet. The return of Nausea forced me to recall Pregnancy Number One back in 2003, when a particular episode happened that I figured I would include in my memoirs one day. And I figure this is it.
This is gross, just so you know. Rated PG from here on out. But you’re big boys and girls, I think you can handle it.
In ‘03, my husband and I were living in a little 3rd-floor seminary apartment in Louisville, KY. The morning sickness was worse than I had feared, and the terrible part about it was that I had absolutely no control. Smells would hit me the wrong way – loaf bread in the bag, a candle, hamburger meat frying, the AIR in general – and I would just toss my cookies right there, wherever I was. Forget running to the bathroom. Garbage can? Only if I was lucky. Obviously, we didn’t get out much.
I KNOW, that’s gross, but I warned you. I’m hoping I can make it through the end of this post, myself. (Hey, this is kind of like The Monster at the End of this Book! Remember that?)
So anyway, one evening, early on, I choked down some Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup for dinner in front of the TV. And not surprisingly, I start to feel green shortly thereafter.
Cade, noticing my expression, begins to offer me lemon slices, lime popsicles, and saltine crackers in a gentle manner, with alarm lurking just below the surface. I shake my head no. He then encourages me to get to the bathroom. Pronto.
“I just need to get some AIR!” I say, adamant that the foregone conclusion will NOT happen this time. I step outside on our front balcony. The stairs and balconies in our apartment complex, formerly comprised of rotting wood, had recently been replaced by steel grates. So you could look down and see people right under your feet.
I am pacing back and forth on the balcony, taking deep breaths, fighting it…fighting it…regretting my decision to distance myself that much further from garbage cans and bathrooms. And on a balcony, of all places. Stupid! Stupid! I’ll never make it back inside in time! No control…
And there it went. Through the floor of the 3rd-floor balcony and on to our 2nd-floor Korean neighbors’ doormat. Noooooo!!! Why did I not stay inside?
There are only three things one can do in such a situation.
1. Walk downstairs, knock on the neighbors’ door, and explain that I just threw up on their doormat. So sorry, don’t mind me, I’ll get you a new one. Promise. How embarrassing!
2. Just get them a new one. Never explain. But they would wonder why! They might even ask us! How embarrassing!
3. Clean it up yourself.
And number three, my friends, is what my husband – armed with latex gloves, a bucket, and a vast array of chemicals – did in the dead of night for me in Louisville, KY.
I have not touched Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup since. Come to think of it, I don’t think he has, either.