with the highs come the lows
The title of this post was going to be ‘Pride Comes Before a Fall’, but I decided that was a bit dramatic. However, that is how I’m feeling today. Yesterday we went to a little get-together to celebrate the engagement of a couple of friends, and there was a very delicious and tempting spread. Between about 9:30 and 11:00pm I gobbled up about five little bits of bread with cheese, some with chutney, some with marinated eggplant, some olives, two pieces of chocolate cake, and a few grapes.
To aid my digestion I quietly bragged, when asked, that yes, I do feel as good as I look and no, I haven’t suffered at all in these pregnant months and yes, it’s all terribly exciting and isn’t the whole experience such a pleasure. All true, of course, but not all needing to be said. I think that somewhere inside I feel like I’m getting back at people for constantly telling me how small I look, by making it quite clear to them how great everything is. The trouble with that is: people don’t realise that I think they’re being offensive by accusing me of being small, and they don’t mean me any ill or harm, and there’s not really any room for bragging about a naturally-occurring miracle such as an easy pregnancy.
For some reason, though, I still cringe when told how small I am, and it still niggles. Last night I told my lovely husband that maybe I’m small because I sleep angled a bit on my belly and I’m squashing the foetus, and the doctors doing the ultrasounds haven’t realised because they’re measuring lengths and not circumferences. That theory is as yet unproven and probably as unlikely as it sounds. But maybe something will come of it and I’ll get the newly-discovered Flat Baby Syndrome named after myself.
Anyway, after getting into bed I realised that I was suffering from quite bad heartburn or indigestion or whatever it is. As my feeling worsened the phrase ‘pride comes before a fall’ started running through my head like involuntary mantra. I started getting chills and sweats and feeling worse and worse, so I got myself a bucket, and got back into bed. My husband could see that I was in distress and asked if there was anything that he could do, but I felt so guilty and stupid at having brought such feelings on myself and such an unpleasant situation on both of us that I declined any assistance. Within a few minutes my legs started shaking and, sorry to share, but I used the bucket for the purpose for which it was intended. The shaky legs are always a sure sign that I’m about to lose my last meal, and last night was no exception.