Before I got pregnant, I generally thought of anniversaries as pleasant things used to mark an occasion of happiness or fond memory, such as a first date, wedding or the start of a new career.
I’ve since realized they’re good for marking dates of great personal suffering, as well.
Case in point: today marks the two-month anniversary of my personal bout with nausea and vomiting. I probably wouldn’t remember the date so clearly, but it just so happened to fall on one of my favorite annual feasting days: Superbowl Sunday. Oh, cruel Fate! Why dost thou mock me?
But I digress.
Since that day, there has been something that I’ve been needing to get off my chest: Whoever coined the phrase “morning sickness” is a grade-A knucklehead. If I were to ever meet the man responsible (and, it was a man, I assure you), I wouldn’t hesitate to punch him in the nose. As far as I know, “morning sickness” is the only condition that’s assigned a specific time of day. Have you ever heard of a morning cold, a night headache, or an afternoon case of the measles? Me either.
To be clear, I’m not complaining. Sickness is a good reminder that the little guy is still in there. It keeps me from being tempted to do something crazy like eat a hotdog, run a marathon or clean the bathroom. (You never know about those pesky chemicals.) It just seems that if a woman is going to be forced to lie perfectly still for hours on end to keep her stomach from hurling its contents back up her throat, survive on nothing but Saltines for weeks on end, and hover over a hunk of porcelain ten or twelve times a day—you all know the drill—the name of her condition should sufficiently acknowledge her level of misery.
I would be tempted to personally petition for a name change of the misnomer-if-ever-there-was-one, but that would require me to get off the couch. So, I suppose I’ll have to be content to combat the faulty term in whatever small ways I can. For now, I guess that means getting sick at any time of the day but morning.