“Don’t sick up the baby!” my three year old cajoles me as I repeatedly throw up in the bathroom sink. He sits on the toilet seat and watches me vomit like it’s as engaging as an episode of Dinotrux. I can’t tell if he’s actually enjoying himself but he’s definitely not fazed and finds it all quite fascinating. Maybe he genuinely thinks that I might sick up the baby, what a story that would be for him to tell.
He’s totally cool if you’re throwing up in the kitchen sink whilst he eats his breakfast as well, probably wont even turn around from his Weetabix until you’ve finished..
“Did you sick up the baby today?”
“No not today” I gasp as I slide down the cabinet and sit on the floor in my wee soaked pyjamas. Apparently the force of the throwing up isn’t enough to sick up a baby but it is enough to make wetting myself a daily occurrence.
The first trimester sucks.
The first trimester sucks and everything smells like arse.
Everything, every place and most people – smell like arse. My sense of smell has gone insane, I can smell everything and everything I smell makes me throw up.
It doesn’t even have to be something disgusting, it can be anything. Even a clean smell can get me gagging like bleach or my husbands deodorant. Seriously the number of times I have thrown up in my mouth as a result of Right Guard Defence 5 is ridiculous. I haven’t washed up in weeks, the smell of the water and the thought of it sends me running to the toilet.
The bloat is pretty bad too, by 11 weeks I’m a danger to myself and everyone else around me. I’m a ticking time bomb of burps and farts. My three year old is thrilled when I tell him it wasn’t me – it was the baby. He begins to blame the baby for his own bodily functions, proclaiming loudly in the public whilst pointing at me…
“It wasn’t me that popped – it was Mummy’s baby!”
The worst part however, is the exhaustion. I’m not tired. I am not sleepy. I am exhausted. Exhausted from doing practically nothing. Well, nothing out of the ordinary anyway. Going to work, cooking dinner, looking after Finley – all standard everyday stuff. I actually have to allow myself rests in the day, a little sit down or lie down. My bones hurt, I feel old. I remember feeling like this in my first pregnancy but it was towards the end, you know when you are big and fed up and have something to actually complain about. I feel like a fraud, I should be glowing. Instead I’m a farting, spotty faced mess.
Oh well, I haven’t sicked up the baby. I guess that’s something at least…
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