…feels different, significantly, than fourteen weeks did (see previous post). I haven’t thrown up in about a week, though I’m still dealing with nausea—low-grade at night (which is so much better than high-grade at night) and high grade if I wait too long to eat (or eat too little). But there’s something else I’ve tried to explain to a few people (failed), and this is a sense of normalcy. Three weeks ago, things hadn’t been normal in months and I didn’t know when/if I would EVAR feel normal again. But this week, even though I still go to bed early, and feel sick sometimes, and am generally weaker than I’ve ever been in my adult life, my head is a little clearer, and the future seems not-so-dim/grim.

It must have to do with slowly returning strength and stamina (masked by slowly leaving nausea). I still feel nearly useless at the farm, where I’m probably able to do half the heavy-lifting I used to do, but this week I have been able to—are you ready—CLEAN ALL THE THINGS. Jason and Julia, whom we visited in Austria last year, are taking a cross-country roadtrip and are stopping at our place this weekend, so I had been planning on doing something about the apartment for some time. It was gross, y’all.

I have never in my life been ok with living in filth, by which I mean dust and hair accumulating on the floor or dirty dishes in the kitchen overnight or gross toilets. But since the only dirt Marshall cares much about is kitchen dirt, and after about two months of sole dish duty he starting caring less about that, I have been living in sin. If cleanliness is next to godliness. Both of those phrases are some of the most ridiculous in our vernacular. Anyways. Three months of dirt. That’s something I didn’t whine about in the last post, but I could have. Oh. I could have. Notice that I already said the apartment is clean and I’m still taking up a whole paragraph to whine about it in retrospect. But this should probably just underline my absolute JOY that I was able, this week, over about 1.5 days, to clean all three rooms of this apartment, which includes some decluttering, some bleaching of the shower, some cleaning the floor behind the toilet, and some mopping of all floors. I’ve been walking around barefoot just to feel the cleanness of the floors. It’s a kind of sublimity.

Also, I officially feel fat, now. Probably because I am, and no-one is more surprised than I am that my ass was actually able to get larger. Marshall says it’s just a ghetto booty, which, whatever. I would just rather it be the same size it’s been for the past 8 years. I have two friends who told me that they gained most of their pregnancy weight in the first trimester, and in the 2nd and 3rd mostly just rearranged that weight (adding a little more). Like, it migrated from fat or super-huge boobs into baby. So, that’s what I’m hoping will happen. Because I’m a little past hoping that I “just won’t care” about my weight gain. Too bad that didn’t work out for me.

So I started this post out to celebrate some happy changes, and I keep sounding whiny? Again?

And here’s another thing that drives me CRAZY: when people treat your very real concerns like they’re cute.

Sigh. Ok. I’m getting carried away. The reason people smile at me when I tell them I’m sick, or gaining weird weight, is that pregnancy is a miracle. I mean, I totally remember doing it, too. How can you not look at a bitchy pregnant lady and think, “Look at how beautiful she is.” At least, I don’t feel beautiful, but I remember I used to think ALL pregnant women were just absolutely sparking with glory. Like sparklers, on the evening of the fourth of July.

Yesterday at work, Lalo, who is from Veracruz, gave me a good talking-to after I had expressed some money-worries. He’s one of the kindest, most optimistic & hardworking people I’ve ever known, so of course everything he makes a point to tell me, I take very seriously. He basically—and in the most kind, warmest way possible—said that I have a lot to be grateful for. He told me that in his town in Veracruz, women who were pregnant worked hard eight months out of the nine, every day making food on fires that they built on cinderblocks on top of dirt mounds. No electricity, no gas. (He also told me a while back that women got back to work quickly after birth, carrying their babies on their backs in the fields, as they worked.) They do it because they have to—it’s just how it is. But not for me. Even with some financial instability and some dramatic body changes, things are good. Not just ok.

I’ve also remembered, recently, how difficult it was to not be able to get pregnant. To some of my friends, I probably sound like the most short-sighted ungrateful idiot ever. After so many long, long months of not getting pregnant, sitting in the bathroom crying when my period came again…again…again… it’s crazy that I’ve so easily forgotten those dark days. I never had to go to a fertility Dr., undergo weird tests and try awful fertility treatments.

And—anyways. I forget how to blog. Do I write neat little essays, or long meandering drivel? I wish I just wrote neat little essays, but—life is messy, currently. Probably always will be, or will be for at least another 5 years. And however counter-intuitive this is, writing meandering drivel seems to put my brain-space in order.

So, I’ll now lie back down under the skylight over our bed, while the rain continues to fall on it, and read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban while Marshall works on his .net forms and while the chicken carcasse (+onion, celery, garlic, rosemary & bay leaves) simmers in the kitchen. Sounds pretty good.

 

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