An Announcement

Here's a post I wrote at the beginning of January. Sorry for the long silence.

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As I write this, I'm a little bit pregnant.

Oh, joy.

I know, I know. I shouldn't complain about the miracle of life. And don't get me wrong, even though it was a big surprise, I'm thrilled that #3 is on his or her way. Things 1&2 are proof that offspring are worth the misery of pregnancy.

It's just that, being a little bit pregnant sucks. It's so bad. None of the symptoms are pleasant. And what's worse, it's too early to tell the world about it. I won't be able to post this for weeks yet, at least not until we have an ultra sound at my first appointment. The misery must remain silent! Except to my sisters and close friends, to whom I apply a generous amount of whining, knowing that they understand how I can be so miserable and so happy at the same time.

I know there are women out there who have wonderful pregnancies, who never feel an ache or pain or the intense need to throw up in a Meijer store. They smile and glow and have cute little baby bellies that barely show till their third trimesters.

I am not so lucky.

For me, bedrest comes in the first 15 weeks of pregnancy. I can barely move without gagging. It's awful. It's so frustrating. I'll be laying in bed thinking "I feel okay, I should do something", and then I stand up and end up having to run to the bathroom.

So I lay in my bed, letting my kids o.d. on movies and the wii, feeling like a horrible mother and wife, letting the zombiness take over.

I actually miss housework.

I know there are other moms out there that totally understand what I'm writing. You're nodding your heads and saying "I feel ya, honey". (Apparently, you're all from the south.)

To you ladies I say, you are my sisters. Both figuratively and literally, because my sisters battle horrible "morning" sickness as well.

To the moms who breeze through pregnancy with hardly an unladylike burp, I say, Count your blessings. Oh, that we could all be that way.

And I haven't even touched the fact that I will be insanely, hugely swollen during my husband's graduation this summer.

You might think I'm exaggerating.

I wish.

But, I keep telling myself, usually when I'm staring into the porcelain throne, to keep my eyes on the prize.

Which is that maybe this is the last time I will ever have to be pregnant.

Three's a good number, right?