eating like a teenage football player: 10 weeks

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[1] 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[2].

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[3] and a couple extra pounds on the scale[4], 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[5] and most vegetables. I also have knock-down-drag-out-downright-crippling cravings. A couple weeks ago I tore through a disgusting vat[6] 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[7]? – 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[8], 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[9].

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[1] Or slightly larger than a really big coat button.. Whatever. Eleven weeks is a lime. Limes also make me gag. Specifically, limes in fizzy water. See infra.

[2] 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!

[3] See FN 1.

[4] 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.

[5] 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.

[6] I’m telling you, it was a vat. Or a trough, even.

[7] That sounds like a challenge I want to sign up for. And a potentially accurate version of my high school diet.

[8] When oh when will the relentless negativity 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!

[9] 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!).