La Mujer Propone, Dios Dispone

All I could think about at first was my nicely planned life, all upside down. I had long been congratulating myself, whenever I heard of someone else's happy news, that I would not have to lie around nauseous for that interminable first trimester, ever again. A woman with her belly out to here always made me grateful that labor would never more loom large in my future. I was happy for the new moms, of course, but I was plenty smug that I'd closed that chapter in my life.

Soon all I could think about was nausea and fatigue. And that it is WAY worse at 40 than it was at 35, when I had my last one. I'm not that old, for crying out loud, snide "advanced maternal age" labels on my medical chart notwithstanding. My body sure feels older this time, though. I crawl in bed at 8:30 p.m. and don't move until I absolutely have to get up. That is, after my husband has singlehandedly gotten all 6 kids out the door to their various schools. And when I know I'll throw up if I don't get food, now. If it weren't for the nausea, I might not get up at all. Pregnancy in one's twenties is a breeze, in comparison.

These were my thoughts as I crawled up the stairs with one small stack of laundry, stopping to rest with my head pressed against the soft carpet, waiting for the roiling nausea to pass.