Week Eight

This week hasn't been a whole lot different than last week. I've been managing the nausea better, however, by simply never ceasing to shove food in my mouth every waking minute. The weird, and somewhat disconcerting thing, is that according to my bathroom scale, I haven't gained any weight yet. First off: if I had known that I could exercise less and eat more without gaining weight, I would've been doing that way before I got pregnant. Second: it's just more fuel for the fire of my crazy-baby-worry. Surely, I think, I should be gaining weight by now. Something must be wrong!

Which leads me to the main topic of the post: not only does this little tummy alien make me tired and ill, it also makes me crazy. Actually, um, craziER than I was before. Besides being unable to listen to the Decemberists anymore, pretty much everything is met with a new degree of irrationality. Last night at Red Robin, I gave the evil-eye to the poor guy wandering around in the red bird suit. A look that said, "Keep moving beak face, I got a burger coming." Earlier this week, poor customer service from Amazon was met with tears and gnashing of teeth. "I can't help it," I wail to my poor mate. "The nubby fills my veins with crazy juice."

In a way though, it's comforting, because whenever the symptoms subside is when the real, genuine, heartbreaking worry starts. I have had more than one day where I was strangely free from nausea which inevitably leads to the fearful thoughts: Something must be wrong. I have plenty of pre-pregnancy neuroses to fuel these fears even on a good day, but I suppose that's God's way of making sure I am mindful and take extra care with everything I do.

Next week is my first OB appointment which I'm looking forward to. In the meatime, we're filling our time with lightning rounds of the name game.

"Glen?"
"Ehh."
"Becky?"
"Blerg! No!"

Good times.