I have to feel better soon, right?
My underwhelmingly named "morning sickness" has reached new levels of misery that my previous pregnancies never experienced. This pregnancy is similar to my others like a Rhodesian Ridgeback is similar to a Yorkshire Terrier: same kind of animal, just that one is small and sweet, and the other will tear apart your lion-sized plans for the day. And that's the last metaphor for the week, thankyouverymuch.
My remedy seems to be eating cereal for just about every meal, taking two-hour naps, and going to bed at 8:30 pm despite the fact that I love love love the Olympics and hate missing a single moment of them. But if I sleep for 12 hours, that only leaves me 12 hours of wake time...which works out to my advantage. I have turned a bit of a corner in that I'm now feeling okay in the mornings when my stomach is empty and my movements are slow. So, I'm sneaking in a quick write here while Jules watches Word World, and Sydney is at school.
First of all, I had my first visit to the doctor's office on Wednesday and got to see the little flutter of heartbeat. Only one heartbeat, much to Jules' dismay. I was relieved for the one heartbeat, on all counts.
Aside from that little milestone of the week, it's been a work week for me. Jason flew back to visit his brother in Mass., so I'm holding down the fort by myself. Whilst I spent the day cleaning the house, he was touring Fenway Park. I did laundry and dishes while he toured the Newport Mansions at Breakers. I was dusting and vacuuming as he walked through the Harry Potter exhibit at the Boston Museum of Science (his review: it was good, but rather expensive at $26 + the cost of admission...fortunately, he got a discount because of our OMSI membership).
I'm not bitter, though. Really. Jason has had to do just about everything--meals, chores, parenting--for the past month, and his vacation is well-deserved. The girls may not be getting the most nutritious meals, but cereal has a lot of vitamins in it, so. We're managing.
And until last night, I hadn't cried at all while Jason was gone. Actually, I haven't been much of a weeper for this pregnancy (excluding Olympic montages), which is sort of refreshing. My crying episode last night wasn't entirely my fault, however.
I was pulled over. By a cop. Because I was driving too slow in the left lane.
I was on my way to pick up Jules at Jason's parents' house, and I had just woken from a nap before I left. Still feeling tired, still feeling Not Great, I headed down the road...a road which unbeknownst to me follows the same rules at Interstates: the left lane is for passing only. I have driven SR-503 hundreds of thousands of times...it's just about the only way to get to our house. For the last several months, the right lane has been closed due to construction, so by habit I've started avoiding it.
Three miles down the road, the lights start flashing behind me, and so I pull over.
I knew I hadn't been speeding. We live down the street from a police station, so I'm always aware of the speed limit.
So, I wasn't feeling guilty, just confused. And because it was dark, I was also feeling alarmed because I don't like talking to strangers on a dark street no matter what uniform they have on.
He explains that I shouldn't have been driving in the left lane. Wasn't going to give me a ticket. Just wanted to let me know that the left lane was for passing only.
I'm nodding, confused, tired, feeling sick...and then I start crying. Of course. Because that's what I do when police officers scold me.
He immediately tried to calm me down. "Don't cry. You're not in trouble," and whatever else that I didn't hear because I was sobbing.
"Oh, I'm just emotional," I sobbed, "because I'm pregnant." A true statement, although I probably would have cried no matter what gestational state I was in.
He congratulated me, and inquired how far along I was and noticed that I have two children because of the two car seats. "Well, don't cry. I don't want to cause you any stress." He was actually very nice about it, although I couldn't stop crying.
And so with only a cursory glance at my drivers license, he walked away, leaving me to cry in the dark, alone on a dark street.
Fortunately, the crying, the dark, the being alone? Not a metaphor for anything I'm feeling. It was just something that happened that reminds me of nothing in particular.
Except that I probably shouldn't be driving at night when I'm sick and tired.
Oh, and congratulatory wishes from a police officer who pulled you over is still a nice feeling. Made better, of course, without a ticket to go along with them.