A New Hangover Every Day

Ah, the joys of the first trimester. When I was pregnant with Lucas, I didn't get to fully enjoy the perils of the first twelve weeks. It was holiday at Victoria's Secret, and we were a manager short most of the time. Looking back I realize I survived on pure adrenaline--driving to the mall at 5:30 in the morning with a death grip on my travel mug full of chocolate milk--there's no other way to explain it. I just didn't have time to feel wretched. Oh sure I was tired, but it was Christmas in retail. That comes with the territory. And the mild nausea? A portion of that, too, could be explained away by the long lines and psychotic customers that go hand-in-hand with a mall holiday.

But this trip I have plenty of time to feel the burn. I consistently feel like ass until about three in the afternoon (also the time Dr. Phil comes on...coincidence?). Don't get me wrong, I'm not hurling into a bucket or anything, but each morning I wake up feeling like I might have had one too many "liquid cocaine" shots at the club the night before. I mean let's face it--pineapple juice, amaretto, and tequila should not travel in the same circles. But I digress.

I wake up a little groggy but manage to stumble down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I remember (seemingly anew each morning) that I am unable to make a pot of coffee. So instead I dig through the cupboards to find the saltines--Oh, miracle food! Oh, manna!--and I pour a glass of ice water. Once the three of us have settled on the couch, I start to pray, "Oh God," I say, "Oh God, oh Gaaaaaahd..." Now if this were truly a hangover, a Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's would fix me right up, but since chicken is one of my many first trimester food aversions, I do my best to keep this automatic response at bay. After choking down a dozen crackers or so, I begin to feel better. Soon I am brave enough to go retrieve the baby from his crib.

Once Lucas is up the morning becomes one big, stumbling lurch toward his morning nap. The smell of his breakfast makes me nauseous, the lavender in our dish soap, the bathroom cleaning supplies, the "fresh citrus scent" of improved dry Swiffer cloths. But I power through somehow. The baby's hair still smells sweet, as does his signature blend of lotion, oatmeal and formula, so I spend the bulk of my time cuddling with him, reading "Moo, Baa, La La La" until we are both exhausted.

Lucas goes easily down for his morning nap around 9:30, and it's time once again to forage through the kitchen for something that doesn't make me want to throw up in my mouth. Ironically, what settles my stomach is Beef-A-Roni. Sometimes Raviolios. What are the odds? That which sustained me through sack lunches in elementary school makes a surprising, if retro, comeback as a pregnancy super-food! And no, I don't bother to read the list of ingredients on the label. I know it contains MSG and probably lots of other vaguely frightening, medicinal-sounding things, but come on. It's Chef Boyardee. He wants to be our friend.