alter ego; she was a B-cup, thanks to a stuffed bra, and had a fictional bio, complete with married parents who lived in Pacific Heights and who were both college professors. Likewise, this anonymous first trimester version of myself, this character I play for strangers, is nothing like me; she is so sure about the health of her baby she never knocks wood, wouldn’t even know what that meant. She is carefree and psyched. She’s planning on delivering at home with a midwife, maybe squatting on one of those plastic yoga balls in a candlelit room filled with sage and confidence in Mother Nature.
On the other hand, despite being “a little bit pregnant,” too little to openly discuss, it’s all I can think about. It dictates every morsel I put in my mouth, every Google search in my computer, every thought and daydream in my head.
The “tri” in first trimester should really be spelled “try,” as in, try not to tell people even though you can’t believe they don’t know just by looking at you. While self-absorption isn’t one of the standard pregnancy symptoms, it is certainly pervasive in my case. Since it is all about me, and the totally unique miracle that I am creating a new life, I can’t fathom how my coworkers at the radio station don’t notice that I’ve swapped my coffee for tea, that I’m practically wearing a bikini to do the news every day because my inner thermostat is all screwed up and I’m standing there shuffling papers in a flop sweat. The studio, like every room, feels like a sauna I’m standing in fully clothed.
How can they not notice that I’m constantly adjusting the air conditioner to try and cool off the studio every single commercial break? I become very conscious of the packets of Wheat Thins and baggies full of pretzels on my console, the crumbs from countless Fig Newtons, a dead giveaway of my new morning eating schedule, which is constant. There are now blotting papers next to my laptop for the slicks of oil that form on my cheeks by nine thirty a.m.
The “try” could also stand for “try” not to feel nauseous and ravenous, the twin symptoms that have overtaken my body. These twins go everywhere together and even dress alike. The nausea makes me hungry, the food I eat to settle my stomach makes me queasy, and the twins make me gain an obscene amount of weight in the first three months.
Whining about gaining weight makes me feel about as cutting edge and literary as a Cathy cartoon, but this is a pregnancy book, so aaack ! My inner critic can suck it.
Morning sickness doesn’t hit in the morning, but any time of day and especially in the late afternoon, and it doesn’t make me throw up, which might be nice because I wouldn’t be gaining about six times the recommended amount for the first trimester if I did toss some of the calories back up. The nausea I feel can only be described as a motion sickness so intense it feels like I rode in the back of an old station wagon, while reading, to an amusement park, where I rode the spinning teacups for an hour before returning home by helicopter through choppy weather to my houseboat lit only by a flickering, fluorescent disco ball. When it hits, all I want is a giant sack of cheese crackers to make it go away.
Anything tangy calls to me: oranges, peaches, lemonade, vinegar, cherry yogurt. Protein bars become appetizers for meals consisting of other protein bars. I fall asleep with a spoon in my hand, a half-empty bowl of oatmeal congealing on the nightstand. I wake up, spoon still in hand, and finish it. It’s difficult to separate a true craving, which you are supposed to satisfy because it means your body must require some nutrient therein, from the sense that I must eat just a little bit of everything in case my baby needs it, will starve without it, will somehow be deficient because of my unwillingness to eat a handful of peanuts or a can of tuna. The strongest craving I have is for Guinness beer—not just any beer, but
On the other hand, despite being “a little bit pregnant,” too little to openly discuss, it’s all I can think about. It dictates every morsel I put in my mouth, every Google search in my computer, every thought and daydream in my head.
The “tri” in first trimester should really be spelled “try,” as in, try not to tell people even though you can’t believe they don’t know just by looking at you. While self-absorption isn’t one of the standard pregnancy symptoms, it is certainly pervasive in my case. Since it is all about me, and the totally unique miracle that I am creating a new life, I can’t fathom how my coworkers at the radio station don’t notice that I’ve swapped my coffee for tea, that I’m practically wearing a bikini to do the news every day because my inner thermostat is all screwed up and I’m standing there shuffling papers in a flop sweat. The studio, like every room, feels like a sauna I’m standing in fully clothed.
How can they not notice that I’m constantly adjusting the air conditioner to try and cool off the studio every single commercial break? I become very conscious of the packets of Wheat Thins and baggies full of pretzels on my console, the crumbs from countless Fig Newtons, a dead giveaway of my new morning eating schedule, which is constant. There are now blotting papers next to my laptop for the slicks of oil that form on my cheeks by nine thirty a.m.
The “try” could also stand for “try” not to feel nauseous and ravenous, the twin symptoms that have overtaken my body. These twins go everywhere together and even dress alike. The nausea makes me hungry, the food I eat to settle my stomach makes me queasy, and the twins make me gain an obscene amount of weight in the first three months.
Whining about gaining weight makes me feel about as cutting edge and literary as a Cathy cartoon, but this is a pregnancy book, so aaack ! My inner critic can suck it.
Morning sickness doesn’t hit in the morning, but any time of day and especially in the late afternoon, and it doesn’t make me throw up, which might be nice because I wouldn’t be gaining about six times the recommended amount for the first trimester if I did toss some of the calories back up. The nausea I feel can only be described as a motion sickness so intense it feels like I rode in the back of an old station wagon, while reading, to an amusement park, where I rode the spinning teacups for an hour before returning home by helicopter through choppy weather to my houseboat lit only by a flickering, fluorescent disco ball. When it hits, all I want is a giant sack of cheese crackers to make it go away.
Anything tangy calls to me: oranges, peaches, lemonade, vinegar, cherry yogurt. Protein bars become appetizers for meals consisting of other protein bars. I fall asleep with a spoon in my hand, a half-empty bowl of oatmeal congealing on the nightstand. I wake up, spoon still in hand, and finish it. It’s difficult to separate a true craving, which you are supposed to satisfy because it means your body must require some nutrient therein, from the sense that I must eat just a little bit of everything in case my baby needs it, will starve without it, will somehow be deficient because of my unwillingness to eat a handful of peanuts or a can of tuna. The strongest craving I have is for Guinness beer—not just any beer, but
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