When I found out on my 34th birthday that after nearly 14 years of trying, I had gone and gotten good and pregnant, Jay and I sat down and decided that, with the exception of a handful of very close friends, we would keep the news quiet until the end of the first trimester. So I have not been able to share via this blog all the fun turns and twists that occurred those precious first few weeks, so I thought I’d give you a little recap here and there.
I did pretty well at keeping things under wraps in the beginning. Opting out of dangerous activities (like practically repelling down a steep hill to stand by a river at Youth Councils!)? – well, everyone knows I’m a wimp anyway. Not eating deli meat? Watching my sodium. No caffeine? I’d given it up for Lent and it was just working so well for me! Crying at the drop of a hat? Well, that’s nothing new. Tired all the time? Have you met my Micah?
I think we made it through the first three months without too much speculation. The hardest thing to hide was the fact that for about a month of that time, I was pretty sick (for those of you Mommas who dealt with morning sickness for many months, I salute you!). Certain foods, certain smells, and oddly enough, certain noises, sent me running for the bathroom. Once, someone brought sauerkraut to a covered dish luncheon, and I disappeared into the Ladies for nearly the rest of the day. No one seemed to notice.
At my very sickest point, I packed my bags and headed for a women’s retreat.
Now, let me preface this by saying that the combination of no soda, morning sickness, and complete fear in early pregnancy to eat anything unhealthy (totally over that. Just polished off a nutty bar!) had me losing 22 pounds by the beginning of month #3. I was, in fact, at my lowest weight in nearly a decade.
So, I’m sitting in the auditorium at this women’s retreat, waiting for the program to start. The young lady in front of me, whom I have never met, turns around and starts telling me about her tremendous weight loss. I smile and nod as I hear her tell her story… until she says this to me. “Yeah, I lost like 115 pounds! I was about your size when I started.”
First of all, in my defense, if I subtracted 115 pounds from my weight, what remains would be a healthy eight-year-old. And an eight-year-old, she was not.
I don’t know if it was the pregnancy hormones or the fact that I’d just deposited that night’s dinner into the latrine, but I nearly lunged over the row and attacked that poor girl. At a Christian Women’s Retreat. (Wouldn’t that have been an awesome story?)
The next day, Saturday, also known as the single sickest day of my adult life, I was on duty to assist with breakfast. Basically, I had to be in the dining room at 7:00 a.m., greet people, and help clear tables. This sounds simple enough. Except that I was extraordinarily nauseous, and the smell of massive amounts of egg filled the room. I just stood there frozen like a smiling, green statue. It was the first time someone asked me if I was feeling sick.
My disastrous attempt to eat breakfast that morning resulted in no attempt to eat lunch, so when an afternoon snack was served, I was actually hungry. I went up to the table to get my snack, and saw the most amazing thing. My absolute favorite – red, white, and blue cookies (In case you’re not familiar, they are cranberry, blueberry, white chocolate, and glorious). And they were still warm.
I took one, and enjoyed one delicious nibble before someone walked by me and, referencing a previous diet I had been trying, said, “Hmm. Guess you’re back on carbs.”
See? This is the argument for telling people you’re pregnant. So you don’t kill them when they accidentally say something stupid.
Later than night, I had to be in a play and go out on stage and make people laugh. Thankfully, my belly would calm a little when I was on stage (this baby likes the spotlight) so I made it through fine (no thanks to the trays of food that a very sweet girl had brought us…. Pulled pork sliders… normally tasty… this day? Ugh).
Funny enough, the only meal I was able to keep down that weekend was a plate of French toast, consumed at 1:30 a.m. from the greasiest, grossest diner I’ve ever been to. What can I say? This baby knows what it wants!
These days I’m feeling much better. And my appetite has definitely returned, even if some days I only want green olives and deviled eggs! And I dare you to say something about it!