I wish I could say that I’ve spent all of 2017 doing things like writing my representatives and writing my novel and traveling to fabulous places. But I have to be honest with you guys. I’ve spent most of 2017 puking so hard I literally pee my pants.
Before I tell you exactly why I keep peeing my pants, let’s travel back in time to that story about when my boyfriend and I flipped a car. In the days afterwards, I was in massive amounts of pain because of a dislocated shoulder and taking Hydrocodone to just get comfortable. My doctor had given me nausea medicine, but it wasn’t touching things. I’d barely eat, then vomit. And on top of that, I had horrible insomnia.
And then I went to see my chiropractor. To my horror, he popped my shoulder back in place, which was the worst pain imaginable. Then he told me to flip on my belly. That’s when I noticed something wasn’t right. When I talked to my bestie Kelsey, she urged me to figure out what was going on. And both of our guts were telling us what we suspected. I’m pregnant.
I’m pretty in tune with my body, obviously, so when I realized I’m carrying a spawn, it all made sense. I had to immediately stop taking meds for obvious reasons, which was hell considering the fact that I had a dislocation. I stopped taking the nausea meds, too, so the whole vomiting-while-peeing-my-pants thing got even worse. But I could immediately tell what the baby was asking for. I was chugging dairy and downing fruits and vegetables, until just recently when the only thing this vegetarian could stomach was McDonald’s chicken nuggets and fresh iced tea. It makes no sense, but the doctor told me not to try to make sense of it.
The thing is, I’ve been trying to hide the fact that I’m pregnant. But I can’t anymore. I’m at almost 11 weeks right now and my belly is so big that people are already suspecting I’m carrying twins.
I fell into that whole, “I can’t tell anyone until I’m safely through the first trimester” mentality. But I can’t hide it. This baby is like, “HI! NOTICE ME!” and since I heard the heartbeat last week, I feel comfortable talking about it.
I also found myself hesitant to talk about it at first — not just because historically, it’s been taboo, but also because I have had friends who are trying desperately to have babies, with no luck, or who have miscarried, and even a derby friend who lost her adult son. I don’t want to bring them pain. But at the same time, I want to celebrate the fact that I’m an elderly primagravida (yeah, that’s the term for an older, first time mother and it makes me want lasagna) or that I’m having a “geriatric pregnancy” and that I’m totally ok with those terms. Cause at least I get to be a mom. At 40. Whoa.
In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m totally petrified I’m talking about it too early and that something bad could happen. But considering the fact that we’ve already survived that horrible car wreck, I’m expecting positive things.
After all, this fetus has Sicilian and Irish blood pumping through its veins, plus a football player and derby girl for parents. Something tells me this baby is going to come out ready for a fight.