While Daniel is - admirably - worried about baby-proofing the house, effective discipline, education systems, moral development and the like, I have more immediate concerns:
How will I ever eat again?
I found out I was pregnant like most women: I went to Walgreens, paid an exorbitant amount of money for two small plastic sticks, peed, nearly fell over in shock, and finally recovered enough to tell my husband. Important, that last bit.
Initially I was a little unnerved. I felt exactly the same, no signs of pregnancy whatsoever. I turned to Dr. Google who told me that I was (a) perfectly normal or (b) doomed to miscarry.
That was two weeks and a few days ago. Now? I rue the day I ever wished for some physical sign of the lentil within. I am tired. So tired that when I asked the time last evening and the answer was "9:30 P.M," I thought I was hallucinating. My sixth grade bedtime rides again.
And food? Normally I love food. I love baingan bartha, sweetbreads, broccoli rabe, labne, moldy-musty blue-veined cheeses, kimchi, boudin and merguez, frogs legs, and homemade sauerkraut pierogi. You get the idea. And we are lucky to live near a terrific farmer's market. I am exceptionally lucky to have a husband who cooks and cooks very well. Weekend dinners were a celebration of the season.
No more. Or at least not for a while. The lentil wants fruit, cereal, toast, crackers, and tea. It doesn't want a prenatal vitamin. It doesn't want meat; fish, even the smell, makes it angry. Honestly, I haven't spent this much caressing a toilet since I was an irresponsible undergraduate. All the traditional remedies -- eating frequent, small meals; not going to bed hungry, eating simple carbs upon awakening -- help, to a degree, but nothing takes away the terrible seasick/motion sick feeling. (I am a coastal child and have never been seasick or motion sick so I can only make an approximation.)
So, I'm leaving the big questions largely in Daniel's capable hands until my stomach starts permanently accepting more than Goldfish crackers.