I no longer feel nauseated like all the time forever and ever, even while sleeping. Which can only mean one thing: baby has stopped growing/miscarriage is imminent/CATASTROPHE AND CAUSE FOR ALARM.
I’m trying not to be so catastrophic. So negative and diabolical. On one hand, I’m fairly certain that C has had it up to here with my negativity. He delights in checking each week to see what fruit-size our little zygote has matured into – 10 weeks is a prune if you’re keeping score – and has recently initiated a renewed conversation about what middle name we might give a daughter.
Of course, not for nothing, I’m also trying to embrace this newest-flavor-of-nausea – only early in the morning and after dinner, usually with a side of WHAT IS THAT BAD TASTE IN MY MOUTH.
Less perma-nausea and my newfound interest in not-only-oatmeal-crackers-spaghetti is actually more accurately described as now-eating-like-a-teenage-football-player.
I’m ravenous. A 5 gajillion calorie scone just moments after consuming a full breakfast – two, please! 56 ounces of orange juice because water tastes-like-burning – you betcha! Working out has simply become “the-exceedingly-short-period-of-time-that-I-can-go-without-eating” and likely soon to become more of a complimentary activity.
But when I started to notice the-bump-that-wasn’t and a couple extra pounds on the scale, I began to re-evaluate whether caving in to every godforsaken urge, interest and craving was really absolutely-necessary-for-the-continued-growth-and-development-of-my-prune. Which is obviously what I had been telling myself <justifiably consumes burrito the size of a football>.
Yes, I still have food aversions. Strong ones. Chocolate, garlic, onions, basil, seltzer and most vegetables. I also have knock-down-drag-out-downright-crippling cravings. A couple weeks ago I tore through a disgusting vat of mayonnaise laden potato salad. A few days ago I legitimately believed I might have an aneurysm without the immediate aid of pad thai (no tofu, hold the vegetables). Salivating would not be too strong a word here. Tonight I had a vision of pink Starbursts and made quick work of extracting the measly 4 in a single pack after gunning it to the closest CVS. But mostly, more than anything, I just feel hungry. A deep, insatiable, almost painful hunger.
But because pink Starbursts and pad thai are not exactly feasible as my daily diet – OR ARE THEY? – I’ve tried to, ahem, reestablish my eating habits. I haven’t cooked anything in over a month and scurvy remains a threatening menace – not to mention that eating like an uninspired frat boy leaves me rather lethargic. So, I’ve made an active effort to gear myself up for healthier options – imagine an insipid cheerleader in the recesses of my brain chanting something along the lines of you-don’t-want-pizza -you-want-quinoa!
Instead of scones, I’m decisively plowing my way through bushels of fruit – I could have eaten six peaches this morning if given the chance. I even partially enjoyed – and partially force-fed myself – a kale smoothie yesterday, something I used to drink on the regular pre-this <motions to expanding gut>.
The point – which has clearly eluded me for several paragraphs now – is that either I am actually still pregnant – a possibility which is absolutely stupefying to contemplate – or I am so petrified by the prospect of miscarriage, that my emotional eating has reached heights heretofore unknown. I’m certainly hoping for the former, though unconvinced that it’s not the latter. In the meantime, I will continue doing what I do best: eating for six.
 The taste – Is it metallic? Just bad? – arrives like clockwork around 5pm, dissipates during dinner, and returns with a vengeance before bed. It’s… exciting!
 We don’t own a scale. But my gastroenterologist – who I visited on Wednesday – sure does. After noticing a small uptick in poundage, she offhandedly remarked, you know you really shouldn’t be gaining weight this early. After I removed my hands from around her neck, I found this refreshing take on pregnancy weight gain. Also, IT BEGINS. You know, the everyone-else-knows-what’s-best-judgy-mcjudgment-of-pregnant-ladies nine-month extravaganza.
 C has a “game” he plays where he mentions “fizzy water” and I gag. I contemplated throwing out our Soda Stream and saying that a fox made off with it during the night. We live on the second floor so it’s totally plausible. I’m still considering it.
 I’m telling you, it was a vat. Or a trough, even.
 That sounds like a challenge I want to sign up for. And a potentially accurate version of my high school diet.
 When oh when will the relentless
skepticism end? Not soon enough for
C’s liking and though I try, probably not soon enough for anyone. I was
actually emboldened in my doubt after having lunch recently with a friend who
is now – post Clomid, IUI and IVF – the mother of adorable twins. She confided
that she remained convinced of catastrophe until she was literally on bed rest,
seven months in. Now that’s perseverance!
 For the record – and just so I don’t come off as a totally insufferable and greedy former infertile – as long as I get a healthy set of lungs and a diaper (i.e. baby) out of this whole thing, I’m willing to go Jessica Simpson – +60 lbs and what felt like a gestation of 13 years – and never look back. Really. Just as long as most of the weight is in my bra. (Kidding!).