Mama be ill

Saturday night, after performing with the band (a very squeaky, squawky, out of tune performance from my cough-roughened throat, I might add, and wouldn’t you know that’s the night that all the people I know came), Patrick and I came home.  We threw on Eddie Izzard and fell asleep to rants about Hannibal and his team of elephants coming over the Alps (I never found that story particularly strange until Eddie pointed out that perhaps skis would have been a more appropriate mode of transport).  I got up off the couch and carried my self to bed, thinking about how the next morning I was going to cook up some eggs and waffles and fake sausage and have an excellent breakfast.  I fell asleep at midnight dreaming of breakfast.  So I know I wasn’t feeling bad at that point.

 

2am saw me up and chucking.  Again at 4am, and every 2 hours thereafter.  Water wouldn’t even stay down.  Rice.  Ginger Ale.  Dry toast.  Nothing.  My stomach was twisting and cramping painfully, so I knew it wasn’t a visit from the morning sickness fairy, who sometimes does reappear briefly to sprinkle nausea and random gagging over her devoted minions.  We won’t discuss other modes of evacuation – but suffice to say that I was quickly emptied and stayed empty all day. 

 

Now that I’ve thoroughly grossed you out, let’s talk about my anxiety all day.  The only way to feed my child is to feed myself.  MY CHILD IS STARVING.  I AM STARVING MY CHILD.  This kept flashing through my brain all day.  It was so frustrating.  I just wanted to get him some food.  Please stupid body, just keep it in there for a few minutes so my wee man can have his breakfast.  He’s only 9 ounces.  He doesn’t need much!

 

It’s Monday morning, and I’ve stayed home from work.  My stomach is still cramping, but it looks like nothing’s leaping out of it.  I called the Nurse Advice Line, and they reassured me that Jack will be just fine as long as I’m not dehydrated.  I can skip a few meals and he won’t starve, he’ll just, you know, suck every last nutrient and mineral out of my poor weak body and take it for himself.  And that’s ok!  Take it, little guy!  You can have it.  I just have to make sure I’m not dehydrated, and since I’ve sucessfully sipped and retained some water this morning, I think I may be ok.  And thereby, Jack will be ok.  Fingers crossed.

 

Meanwhile, I accomplished none of my Christmas decorating that I wanted to do yesterday.  Bummer.  Patrick went and got a tree without me, and it sits in the front window, undecorated.  The pumpkin loaves are unbaked.  The lights are unhung.  And it’s taking a lot of willpower for me not to troop around and do it today.  I need to just sit and take it easy, but I want to do do do!  Maybe this afternoon I’ll be sufficiently recovered.

 

Virgil wants to play.  I’m mad at him, he chewed up one of my favorite NEW maternity-friendly shoes yesterday.  He’s standing here barking at me, nipping my hips, talking to me and snapping his jaws.  I’m going to try to pay him some attention.  Cross your fingers that I’m eating by the end of the day.