I am fourteen weeks along, and officially thoroughly into the second trimester.  I should be getting my energy back, and the nausea should go away and my appetite return, and overall I should be glowing and loving life.


Yeah, “should” is only an average.  Which means it applies to no one.  The various symptoms are getting somewhat better (I even made dinner on Friday!), so probably in a couple more weeks I’ll be able to function normally again.  Though I can’t say I remember being “glowy” last time.  And the low blood pressure is likely to stick around.

The hardest part tends to be the niggling suspicion that if I just forced myself to eat and get up I wouldn’t be sick because clearly I am subconsciously causing all of my symptoms myself because I am a terrible lazy person.  This is not true.  And I know it’s not true.  But hormones tend to magnify random guilt.

On the positive side, my nails are happy and my hair doesn’t get greasy as quickly as it usually does.  So that’s kinda fun.

(My sister-in-law asked yesterday if knowing what to expect made things easier enough to balance out caring for a toddler.  While both pregnancies have their pros and cons, I really don’t know what to expect any more this time around.)

This morning I tried the experiment of moving a storage bin from the bathroom to the side of my bed.  Since Beauty climbs on this bin every time I’m in the bathroom, I hoped she’d use it to climb onto my bed herself, instead of making me haul her up.

Unfortunately, I calculated without her preference for things staying where they belong.  After examining the bin, she ran back and forth between bedroom and bathroom several times to establish what had happened.  Once the migration was confirmed, she attempted to pick up the bin to move it back.  I stopped her from moving it, but she wouldn’t climb on it.  Maybe we’ll get another one and paint it or something.

Okay, I have a poopy diaper to change.  And I really should drink something.  Yuck.

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