Pregnancy has hit. And it’s hit hard.
I thought I was okay in the beginning, just a little extra
tired but feeling pretty fantastic overall. After a conversation with my
midwife who gave me the green light, I decided to go ahead with my plans to hop
a plane with my best friend and jet up to Michigan for another close friend’s
wedding, followed by a road trip back down south, zigzagging across the east
coast to visit friends and pick up stored belongings.
I kissed my husband goodbye, he kissed the belly, and I
skipped off to security feeling great about my upcoming adventure. We boarded
the plane and found it half empty, so I scored an entire row of seats and stretched
out for a nap all the way to Michigan.
But then… we landed. The plane took off to some other
airport, and with it flew away my dreams of an easy first trimester. I sat down
in the middle of the crowded terminal and tried to stop the world from spinning
away from me while simultaneously scanning the walls for bathroom signs in case
I lost my breakfast. I stayed down for quite awhile. People stared, my friend
tried to move me out of the traffic, but it was not happening. I was glued to
that floor, and I knew if I got up the world would crash down around me.
Since then things have not improved. The smell of food
(almost any food) cooking sends me running for the bathroom, which is even more
sucky when you are staying in a home with twenty people from whom you’re trying
to hide the pregnancy. I get dizzy all the time, and it seems like I need about
eighteen hours of sleep a day.
I’ve still got a wedding and a long road trip ahead, so we’ll
see if I survive. Until then, rest assured that the first trimester is indeed
exactly as reported by every pregnancy book – exhausting, nauseating, and icky.
But despite all of that, I’m still happy. Because every time
I run to the bathroom or grab a wall as the room starts spinning, I am reminded
that this little baby growing inside me is very, very real.
