At some point, I’m going to tell you about the awesome day we had on Saturday. Which was much needed after I hugged the toilet for the first time in two pregnancies on Friday night and cried about it. (Domino’s pizza–I love you. The first time. And yes. I cried about puking.)
And then at some point, I’m going to tell you that we had a pretty run-of-the-mill Sunday. Awesome in its predictability and low-key-ness. (Or I won’t write about it because it was pretty boring except for seeing Jennifer and Co. for fro-yo.)
But first, I’m going to whine.
After I tell you that I finally, FINALLY got some relief from the Southbound lane thanks to a lovely little Sunsweet snack. (Seriously. Thank the sweet baby Jesus in His swaddling clothes for that relief. And adult Jesus, too.)
So back to that whining thing.
I think there’s something about my job that makes me have to puke. Or not my job, necessarily, but the fact that I can’t be horizontal on the couch for 10 minutes here and there if that’s what I need to let a bout of nausea pass. Somehow I think I can’t curl up on top of my desk during a break the same way I used to curl up on the top of the chest freezer’s at Mama’s restaurant and take a catnap with my head on a cardboard box.
Or it’s the talking and swallowing of air while doing said talking. It’s kind of hard to teach without talking, you know? Unless I want to teach miming. And I don’t. I suppose I could pretend to have lost my voice, but that’s only going to last for about a day before the boys in 6th period catch on and I have to start yelling at them to act like normal human beings again. All this talking makes me want to vomit.
So does chewing. As in, whatever I take for lunch that day is pretty much what I’m going to eat for lunch that day unless they’re having something tasty in the cafeteria. Which they never are. So that means even if it doesn’t sound good (and not much sounds good these days) I have to eat it. Because NOT eating is also not an option. But the act of chewing my food makes me want to yak.
Enter soups. Namely, the entire pot of homemade potato soup I made on Saturday evening and consumed in two days and Italian Wedding Soup. And the fact that it’s still a zillion degrees outside. But I? Am eating soup.
Five more weeks until I’m out of the first tri and, hopefully, not feeling quite so vommy.