After the meltdown-activating sequence at the pharmacy on Monday, I finally got my prenatal supplements (plus DHA! So fancy) on Tuesday. Since then, my stomach has chilled out a minimum of 200%, bringing it down to about a 3 in intensity on the nausea scale. HOORAY! I can eat anything that involves starch and cheese together--most notably raviolis (of which I purchased three bags on Tuesday that are now 80% gone), but also grilled cheese sandwiches, and cheetos. Cheetos was just one of those baby lunch-sized baggies, and just one time, so don't worry--the baby won't come out with little orange fingers.
On Thursday, I actually felt amazing, and did normal things! I mowed the lawn, took down the Christmas lights (don't judge), and took a walk to the store for some fruit. The weather was scarily beautiful, so I made a point to be outside as much as I could. It was the most refreshing day I've had since I've been pregnant. When you feel like crap ALL THE TIME, you finally realize how nice it is to have a normal day. This is kind of weird, but it made me think about people who are on stuff like chemo, and are tired and sick all the time--my overly-empathetic hormones and I probably even cried about it.
So anyway, raviolis got me pretty far, but I began to tire of them after eating them for four days straight.
Friday night began what I am referring to as "The Great Pizza Streak". I order a large, veggie pizza from the place down the street. While I usually enjoy the olives, today they tasted like a nasty tin can, so after picking them off, it was as delicious as ever. I eat 3 of the four remaining slices (and pretty much nothing else) on Saturday, which keeps the grand majority of the queasies at bay. Sunday after church comes...
"Frank.." "Yeah?" "...I want pizza." "Carla, we're NOT getting a pizza." "WHY NOT?" "We just HAD pizza." "SO WHAT? YOU DON'T HAVE TO EAT IT." "Carla...sighhh."
I throw something of a tantrum where I stomp/flail my feet around before getting out of the car. I have my best wrinkled pout on as I begin to whimper and whine to myself. There is some legitimate upset here. I have had a taste of feeling well this week. Pizza is a proven effective treatment for my sickness. I CANNOT eat another ravioli. Frozen pizza is not what I want, and Frank has identified $20 a pop pizzas from Bella Roma as "an expensive habit". Seeing my dismay, and clearly not wanting to hear me complain all day, Frank says something surprising:
"How about I make you pizza."
I am stunned and pleased with this initial statement, but am too soon overcome with a lack of instant gratification.
"THAT'S GONNA TAKE FOREVERRRRRR."
And it did take forever. I had to eat rotinis to tide me, and Frank became very frustrated with his second batch of dough by the fifth hour. (the first batch got cooked in the breadmaker on the incorrect setting). BUT. When all was said and done, that thing was delicious. Frank achieves a new level of sainthood, and I get my quota of cheesy starch once more.
The next day, I eat the leftovers, and Tuesday, I strike out on my own as the next great pizza maker. I look up the easiest recipes for breadmaker dough and pizza sauce, and with the help of the two-pound back of mozzarella cheese we picked up from costco (good call Frank), I made this little beauty:
The moral of this story is: Give a girl a pizza, she'll eat for two days...teach a girl to pizza, and she may eat for nine whole months.
This day's greatest feat was going to the grocery store to buy raviolis, which I have determined is the one food that my stomach can handle consistently without me taking deep, nausea-suppressing breaths between each bite. Yay! I bought three bags--all different types of cheese raviolis--square, mini-square with whole grain, and cheese tortellini (ravioli with a hole in it). Also on the shopping receipt were mint cookies and cream frozen yogurt (cold things are another soothing choice), and ginger ale.
I finally got the blasted text from Rite Aid, so Frankie and I will make the half-hour drive for the vitamins, and stop to see some friends nearby to justify not waiting until tomorrow. And just to see our friends. Happy coincidence.
Frank spent the majority of the day doing research on things like insurance, windshield replacement, and diaper coupons. He called himself "bossy", "dad" and "serious-man". I loved it.
That's what Monday morning sounded like. Blaaaagh.
I was brought a lovely cup of ginger tea with a pretty little slice of lemon in bed. I took two sips of it, got up, broke out in a sweat, and gagged the tea-tinted non-contents of my stomach into the toilet. Good morning world!
A needed a small reprieve after this less-than-easy start to my day. I called my first student's mom, and informed that I may be a bit behind in arriving to their house. She puts the pieces together, and excitedly tells me to take my time and feel better. After laying in bed for another half-hour and being fed oatmeal squares by the sweetest man alive, I make it to their house at a reasonable time, but still suffer through the session with unrelenting nausea.
I choke down a chocolate-peanut bar on the way to session number two, which is a half hour away. I am cursing every person on the road for their horrible judgement, and for having been born in a year that now allows them to drive.
I arrive to the center, where I am greeted sympathetically by Joan, who notifies me that things will get better, although I do look a bit peaked.
This next hour is also fairly unpleasant, but not as terribly thought intensive. I (can only) eat one segment of a grapefruit in hopes of any improvement. There is not really any.
I send a fax to get an old W-2 resent, gather my things, and make my way to Rite Aid. My OB prescribed me some pre-natal vitamins, which had to be ordered by the pharmacy so they would be here today.
I enter the store, and Rite away, I'm not particularly pleased. There is the filthy, anticeptic smell of things being remodeled, and here is no ginger ale, which already at 1:45pm, seemed like my last shot at a pleasant day. GREAT, THAT's really helpful.
I make my way to the pharmacy counter, and give my name. No, there is nothing here for me. Is it an old prescription? Do I have a detonation switch? Is this it?
I clench my teeth to prevent immediate Hulk-a-mania, and put my back on the counter. The head pharmacist calls me to the center window, where she shows me the order sheet from Friday with my vitamins listed, and proceeds to tell me that she just doesn't know why they didn't come in today. The mystery and implied incompetance of any, if not all, involved parties of course makes me feel much, much better. She makes some call to a customer service line while I stand there with my hormones welling up to my optic lens, and I finally just ask caaaaaaaaalmly if I can be somehow notified when they ACTUALLY arrive. She sets me up to receive a text, and I barely stalk out of the store before I start crying.
I cry in the parking lot. I decide I need to leave the parking lot, because I'm sitting directly in front of the entrance of the store, searching in the glove box for the ingredients to a maltov cocktail (tissue). I cry at the three red lights before the highway, (sort of) saying things like "I just want to take care of my baby". I cry in the fast lane, which I quickly realize is not advisable for the safety of mom and baby. I cry in the slow lane instead, followed by the exit lane. Good things.
By the time I get to session number three, I realize two things: 1.) Maybe my women's One-A-Day and folic acid will be okay to take for one more day. 2.) There is no session number three.
I usually meet my third student at her school, whose parking lot is presently desolate. OF COURSE. It's President's Day, BUT not all private schools observe all weird holidays. Thanks for the memo, mom-of-student. I should charge them for this, but I'd much rather just let it fuel the fire instead.
I cry in the empty parking lot, and send a passive-aggressive text to mom. ("No school today I'm guessing".) She does a great job of ruling out/avoiding the possibility that I know this because I have actually driven to the school, and says that she will send me a list upcoming school holidays asap--no problem. Thanks.
I go to Chik-fil-A. Here I actually stop crying. Thank you waffle fries.
Session number four is not until 4pm. It is still about 3:20. I make the decision to go back to the tutoring center and hang out for a bit. "Hang out" means "sleep on the floor of the darkest smallest room in the office". I had one extremely brief and apologetic visitor, who, knowing my condition, urged me to continue resting. So I did--it was definitely the best part of the day so far, and I wasn't eager for it to end.
When I did head out to session four, I was feeling a bit better, and I really enjoy this next student, so I was sure this would help my day. When I arrived at her house, however, it was easy to see that my showing up hadn't helped hers much. She also had the day off from school, which--SURPRISE--her mother had neglected to tell me. She began whining loudly about how she was supposed to have a non-school-type day, and attempted to escape to the living room. At this point, I pull out my phone and text student five's mom, telling her I cannot meet with her son today, as I am not feeling so well.
There is more yelling--something about the aquarium and taking friends out to dinner, iPhones and dogs peeing on the carpet. Mom says that we're going to work on organizing things today, since student was not able to remember one of her science assignments last week, which makes her cover her face with her hands in fury and dismay. More yelling--something about food stamps and trailers, and like a firey tornado, mom is gone--out to walk the dogs.
Student and I have a good talk about organizing things, and also about how losing a homework assignment in eighth grade might not automatically mean you end up on food stamps.
Mom comes back, cusses up a storm about student's school and teachers, and overall makes me super uncomfortable. I cannot wait to leave. I become super gassy and queasy with nervousness. After what seemed like eons of making awkward half-agreements to statements like, "I'd rather satan teach my daughter and she get a good education", I get to go home.
The rest of the day was spent in dream-sleep. The end.
