For Those About to Gestate, We Salute You

“Aw, look. You’re having a Hellboy.” – our friend Chad

There comes a time in a young-ish married lady’s life when she looks at her husband and has to make a choice, to a) beat him in Scrabble, b) mold his beard into funny shapes, or c) do it. And sometimes, choosing “c” results in being 12 days late with her ladytime, taking four negative pregnancy tests followed by a fifth positive one, and then gaining 400 pounds, roughly half of which is fetus and its accompanying goo. (Note: The other half is burgers and lemonade.)

Which is to say, I’m knocked up. (Due on Cinco de Mayo! Break out the virgin margaritas.)

Yay! Husband and I and ESPECIALLY OUR PARENTS are thrilled with this development, as it means our familial line will continue for at least another generation, or in nerd terms, through iPhone57G. We look forward to all the cuteness and wonder and giggles and poop, which we've been assured there will be lots of. In fact, we’re even looking forward to the inevitable moment when the baby pukes into our open mouths, which, if friends and family on Facebook are to be believed, happens alarmingly often.

And while we're over the moon, I gotta tell you guys – pregnancy is kind of funky.

Don’t get me wrong - the prospect of introducing a new human to the wonders of Pixar and brownies is dumbfounding in its awesomeness. But my first trimester was a little rough. Meaning: I did not take the Barftrain all the way to Vomitville, but I did make a month-long stop in Queasytown. (Motto: “Where you always feel like s**t.”)

There was a span of about two weeks during which I slept negligibly, ate weirdly, and cooked nothing – not a slice of toast, not a bowl of cereal, not liver with fava beans with a nice Chanti. We subsided mainly on Chipotle and the kindness of passing Chinese takeout delivery boys, who, as it turns out, prefer to be paid for their troubles. My diet was neither cheap, nor healthy, nor particularly good, unless you count the burgers. And there were many.

It’s Month #4 now, and the nausea has finally begun to subside. I’m cooking again, and my appetite has returned with all its friends and relatives. According to the medical books (a.k.a. Manuals of Horror) I've read, the rest of my pregnancy should proceed thusly:

Month 1: Sore bosom
Month 2: Fatigue
Month 3: Nausea
Month 4: Raging indigestion
Month 5: Pregnancy … thing … bus … uh, brain
Month 6: Carpal Tunnel Body
Month 7: Hormone conflagration
Month 8: Beatlemania
Month 9: Gigantism
Month 10: Pass a human through my nethers

I'm looking forward to it - the pregnancy, the birth, and especially the whole "raising a child" part. Because I've tried to teach the cat how to read, and he's just not getting it.

In the meantime, I'll blog when I can, hopefully regarding food. And if y'all have any suggestions? I'm all ears. And abdomen.