The First Trimester Blues

Changing the nappy of two-year-old T-Bone this morning, I noticed that he had somehow excreted a trio of giant grapes. Next I realised that the grapes must have started off as sultanas, and then somehow during their journey through his gastric system taken on enough water to reconstitute themselves to their undessicated form. After realising this, I threw up violently.

You see, I’m pregnant with my third child and morning sickness and bad nappies just don’t mix. In fact, morning sickness doesn’t mix with raising two little preschoolers very well at all.

Life at home with little squidlets can be an absolute joy, but it takes a lot of work. You must plan ahead, staying always 20 minutes ahead of the hunger/tiredness/boredom meltdown curve. With energy and good humour, a stay-at-home parent can have a delightful day.

Unfortunately, the first trimester has sucked all my mamma mojo and left me a limp, cranky shadow of my former self. It’s all I can do to keep the kitchen stocked with plain biscuits, ginger beer and folate. Playdough, craft and games of crazy chasings are a distant memory of a happier time; those golden days before I made the preschool lunches with a spew bowl tucked under one arm.

Also, according to the ancient mathematics of motherhood, as Maternal Energy has declined, General Naughtiness has increased.

I’m just singing the first-trimester blues, I know. But I can’t help feeling a little nervous. Before I actually got pregnant, I felt more than ready for a third child. In fact, I was so clucky my ovaries practically rang a bell on Day 16 of every month. “We’re ageing here!” I could hear my eggs calling. “Don’t make us break a hip limping down the fallopian tubes on our Zimmer frames! Get on with it!”

So we did. And let me tell you, this foetus leapt at its first possible chance of conception. It was like it knew that our third-child decision was a little shaky; that it might only take one week of extreme naughtiness, one sleepless night or one bout of gastro for Hubby and me to look at each other and cry, “What?! Are we crazy? No way can we manage another baby!”

Still, despite the nausea and the tiredness and the slight fear, moments of pure joy peek through. When we told the kids about the baby (known to us as Plum), they were delighted. “I’m your sister, Plum! And I love you!” four-year-old Peanut shouted at my belly. “I your sister too!” agreed Plum’s brother. “Can I pour some milk into your belly button for Plum?” Peanut asked.

And then: “Did Daddy get lots of wee on his hands when he put the seed for the baby in?” (I answered no to both questions, in case you were wondering.)

Finally, my friends, I know this column has been light on the laughs and heavy on the vomit and for that, I apologise. I figure if anybody will understand, it will be you. But I promise that I am filled with hopeful optimism for the energy and super-glow of my second trimester. See you on the other side!