Hurl, Interrupted

Something odd happened this morning.  At 22 weeks pregnant, I finally was made to pay tribute to the legendary porcelain god.  It was the oddest thing.  Stella and I were up (early) bumming around the house.  She was having milk and watching cartoons and I was having a cup of tea while I worked my way through a groundwater monitoring report since it’s a telecommute day.  It was about 6:15.  So far, typical stuff. 

I abruptly got queasy, but this is in and of itself not unusual.  If I go too long in the AM without something in my stomach – most often some buttered toast – I still get pukey.  I’ve felt pukey a whole lot this time around, especially in the early days, but had never actually tossed the proverbial cookies1.  I made my way to the toaster and set about curing myself.

I had settled back on the couch with toast and took a bite.  Then another.  Only this time, I couldn’t finish chewing.  Totally without warning, my body made it known that the toast was absolutely not acceptable, and that violent refusal was imminent.

Throwing up always sucks.  It’s probably one of the most unpleasant things your body can do without external stimulus of some kind.  Throwing up with a toddler in the bathroom with you is a whole new level of awful.  As I knelt in front of the commode, spitting out my bite of toast and drooling, Stella was happily climbing over and around me chattering about “potty” and “duck” and “glasses” (which I was simultaneously trying to wrestle from her before the actual event began) and “mommy.”  I was trying to fend her off with one hand and weakly beg/suggest that she find daddy.  I knew that was a long shot.  Daddy was asleep in the bedroom and daddy isn’t mommy. 

There are stories of my husband sleeping through security system and fire alarms.  I know he’s slept through alarm clocks.  The dude can SLEEP.  I had no real hope that he would come and help.  Not because he’s a meanie, but because he would be blissfully unaware of the tableau in which his wife and daughter were a part of.  Fortunately, I was wrong.

I heaved once, and I guess that sound was enough to trigger the “oh shit” alarm in his head.  He came running to help.  I didn’t need help with the actual regurgitation, of course, but was more than happy to have him remove the child and close the door behind them.

I puked in peace and then cleaned myself up.  As usual, I guess, in these cases, I felt fine afterward and have been ok ever since.  Why today?  Who knows?  I can only hope that this was my one and only deposit into the morning sickness bank.

1 I think puking is much like “penis” or “boobs,” in that there must seriously be about 8,004 different slang terms for it.


About larva225

Working mom. Is there any other kind? Geologist. Nerd.
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