You heard it here first. Or maybe fifth: Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton are pregnant. Really Kate’s the one who’s pregnant. But we’re in enlightened, egalitarian times, so we’re supposed to say “they” are pregnant. 'Cause, you know, Prince William, someday King of England, is going to be changing a lot of nappies. Be sure to send him some royal burp cloths.
And of course dear Prince Wills isn’t the one suffering from “morning sickness.” Another horribly inappropriate term. Because it isn’t just in the morning. It is all. Blasted. Day. And night. Ad infinitum.
The poor princess has a severe form called hyperemesis gravidarum which is an “extreme, persistent nausea and vomiting during pregnancy that may lead to dehydration.” Translation: the princess is puking. Or feels like puking. Probably every half-hour.
I had this lovely affliction myself. Have you ever had the norwalk virus? That nasty one people get on cruise ships? Cake walk compared to “morning sickness.”
My diet consisted of saltines and lollypops.
Everyone said I should really feel grateful because it meant the baby was strong. Or the baby was a vampire. These same people kept asking me if I had tried ginger. Ginger lozenges, candied ginger, ginger tea, gingerbread, ginger powder, I even sucked on raw ginger. Ginger? Now, when I see that damnable root in the produce aisle, I want to beat it to a fine pulp with that broom the produce guy always leaves by the cantaloupe, and leave the sad, mangled ginger there to suffer as I had suffered.
Part of the problem was expectation. Morning sickness in movies is just what it sounds like: queasy when you wake up, a small prayer to the porcelain god, then suddenly one blossoms in to that glowing and gorgeous earth-mother, womb of all creation pregnant lady. Many of my friends who had gone before me into and out of this blessed state, experienced just that. A little urp in the morning and then a toss of that none-of-your-hair-falls-out-when-you’re-pregnant-so-it-looks-like-a-Pantene-commercial hair. Not so at Chez Spohr.
Thus, people thought I was a wuss. Which, admittedly, I am, but this was no wuss factor. This was chemo patient anti-nausea drugs not helping “morning sickness” that lasted twenty-two weeks. That’s five and a half months people! And believe me, when my children are of the eye-rolling age, they will be reminded of it, ad nauseam. Then I’ll just give them a saltine and smile. Or maybe some ginger.
Now I know you all out there have some tales to tell too, so do share.
And of course dear Prince Wills isn’t the one suffering from “morning sickness.” Another horribly inappropriate term. Because it isn’t just in the morning. It is all. Blasted. Day. And night. Ad infinitum.
The poor princess has a severe form called hyperemesis gravidarum which is an “extreme, persistent nausea and vomiting during pregnancy that may lead to dehydration.” Translation: the princess is puking. Or feels like puking. Probably every half-hour.
I had this lovely affliction myself. Have you ever had the norwalk virus? That nasty one people get on cruise ships? Cake walk compared to “morning sickness.”
My diet consisted of saltines and lollypops.
Everyone said I should really feel grateful because it meant the baby was strong. Or the baby was a vampire. These same people kept asking me if I had tried ginger. Ginger lozenges, candied ginger, ginger tea, gingerbread, ginger powder, I even sucked on raw ginger. Ginger? Now, when I see that damnable root in the produce aisle, I want to beat it to a fine pulp with that broom the produce guy always leaves by the cantaloupe, and leave the sad, mangled ginger there to suffer as I had suffered.
Part of the problem was expectation. Morning sickness in movies is just what it sounds like: queasy when you wake up, a small prayer to the porcelain god, then suddenly one blossoms in to that glowing and gorgeous earth-mother, womb of all creation pregnant lady. Many of my friends who had gone before me into and out of this blessed state, experienced just that. A little urp in the morning and then a toss of that none-of-your-hair-falls-out-when-you’re-pregnant-so-it-looks-like-a-Pantene-commercial hair. Not so at Chez Spohr.
Thus, people thought I was a wuss. Which, admittedly, I am, but this was no wuss factor. This was chemo patient anti-nausea drugs not helping “morning sickness” that lasted twenty-two weeks. That’s five and a half months people! And believe me, when my children are of the eye-rolling age, they will be reminded of it, ad nauseam. Then I’ll just give them a saltine and smile. Or maybe some ginger.
Now I know you all out there have some tales to tell too, so do share.
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