Trouble

Until I find out next week if the comments I direct towards my stomach (which is at least better than talking to myself) should be to a he or a she, I've decided to call the baby Trouble. With a capital T. In the most motherly, affectionate voice of course, like the tone of voice mothers use when they say Pumpkin or Princess. Because as excited as I am for the baby to get here, Trouble is certainly being troublesome until then.

I was really hoping that week 15 would be like a magic number. For the new mothers that I've talked to, the morning (or all-day) sickness subsided around week 15 and most happily recalled a renewed sense of energy in the second trimester. I'm 17 weeks, and the nausea hasn't stopped since its started. I had nearly two weeks where the nausea was at least subsided enough to keep food down (the foods that I'm not having aversions to, anyways, like pizza and Chinese, which are usually some of my favorites) but then I had two more days where only one small meal seemed to stay put.

I really (really, really) wish I was one of those women who just loved being pregnant in all its aspects. Not to say that I haven't had my good moments, like every time I get an ultrasound, those times when mood swings go in my favor, or just the excitement of sharing the news and making plans. And I have met women who had even worse experiences with nausea, so the it-could-always-be-worse phrase applies here too.

Emotionally, I love being pregnant. Physically, not so much. Emotionally, I can probably count on one hand the times that I have cried for no reason other than hormones. Physically, I feel like one of those movie characters where their body has been taken over by an alien—I can't eat what or when I want, I don't have the energy to do the things I used to, and, who is that woman on her knees throwing up on the sidewalk in public sobbing because she feels so miserable? Not me, okay, at least not the normal me.

Emotionally, I love making plans for adding to our family and daydreaming about the day when I can hold Trouble in my arms. Physically, I've had way too many ER visits and non-routine doctor's appointments for my taste. Emotionally, every time the doctor tells me Trouble is perfectly happy even though I'm miserable, I feel a little more like Super Woman and less like an invalid. Physically, I mull over every belly twinge trying to determine if Trouble is saying hi or my muscles are just protesting the expansion (Okay, I'm an optimist I had to throw one positive physical thing in there).

I'm three weeks away from that halfway point, and while emotionally I'm on top of the world nine times out of ten; physically, I think Trouble has earned his or her nickname, at least for now.