Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Saturday
Jun142008

Back From The Dead

I would love to tap out an entry about anything BUT pregnancy. Alas, I can't. I have been sick for two solid weeks. And I worked for eleven of those days, losing all sense of dignity, really. When you're retching so hard you fear you just may puke out your asshole and turn your entire body inside out, when you're vomiting so hard you wet yourself and can do nothing about it because, let's face it, either the puke misses the bowl or the urine does... when all of the above is a part of your day every hour or so you just don't care much about hair washing, eyebrow tweezing... know what I'm saying? So here I am on my first day off in six days in all my greasy-haired, stinky pajamas, unibrow glory.

To those of you who breezed through pregnancy without 'morning' sickness I heartily extend my middle finger in your direction and hope that horrific purple stretch marks scar your body. Truly, I do. I have zombied my way through the hardest week of my life. I don't know how I did it. The one bright spot; nobody walked in on me in the work restroom while I was puking my lung out of my nose. THAT would have been awkward, no? I figure they heard the retching from down the hallway and avoided the restroom until I left.

It's Saturday morning. Serge has taken Max and Milo to the park for a walk, God love him. I'd detail the horror that is owning a puppy and going through 'morning' sickness but I'm afraid I just may break down crying and not recover until someone brings me a shake from Arctic Circle. Okay, okay... ONE anecdote. I was sleeping in our guest bedroom with Milo. No I didn't get in a fight with Serge. Oftentimes I get home from work after he has gone to bed and I need a good sitcom or seven to accompany me down the trail to sleepytown. We don't have a television in our room so I'll climb in the guest bed and fall asleep to the dulcet tones of Roseanne or The King of Queens (the sitcom marriage that most resembles ours). So I'm asleep, it's roughly 3AM and something woke me up. It was dark. I listened. Nothing. I waited. Still, nothing. Then, like a fart in an airplane a putrid smell punched me in the nose. I flipped on the lamp and there was Milo at the foot of the bed, sitting atop a pool of steamy throw-up. Right on my new bed spread! Great strings of slimey dog puke hung from his little jaws, glistening in the soft lamplight. His bubblegum-colored tongue lapped at them like he'd just been served a steak dinner. I sprang from bed, grabbed paper towels and attempted to scoop the puke into a plastic bag. Of course, my own puke immediately attempted to mingle with Milo's and there I was, scooping dog puke, retching and bawling. It was awful. And certainly not the only experience of it's ilk with Milo The Great and Terrible lo this past fortnight. But enough of that. My belly is starting to churn.

I know. I haven't posted a weekly photo since week 5. The tummy, it is protruding. But more in an I-Just-Ate-Thanksgiving-Dinner-Way not an adorable baby bump kind of way. Will post week 8 photo later today if I can get my shit together. I miss photography. Haven't been able to snap a shot in weeks, hell, haven't left the house in weeks except to go to work. I'll try to get some Milo photos in as well. Little bastard is huge.

UPDATE: at 8 weeks (can someone possibly tell me how I gained 4 pounds when I haven't kept an ounce down?)