Elisardbeth

A friend invited me to a movie in what can only be described as the least Hallmark way possible. The Facebook message read:

“If you’re sitting around your flat feeling fat and your husband’s working, why not tag along for a movie?”

I stared at it, blinking. Then it clicked, ah, yes. Pregnancy. I’m used to sitting around my flat feeling fat; I’m just not used to people putting it in writing. And truthfully, I don’t feel pregnant. Seven months in, it’s been a stroll in the park. No morning sickness. No mood swings. No cramps.

Which means, of course, that karma has been circling me like a vulture.

The only storm cloud so far has been my finances; Budgeting for a surprise baby is like planning a wedding when the groom is a surprise guest. And yesterday morning, the universe decided it was time to cash in my good-luck chips.

I had a Skype meeting scheduled with a potential client. This was part of my pre-baby plan: secure a few steady gigs before my illustration career takes a nap. I opened my laptop. No internet. My ISP apparently prefers money before service. I emailed the client from my phone, then decided to make the best of it: toast with strawberry jam, tea with honey. Bliss. It even brought back childhood summers at my aunt’s place—Saturday cartoons, breakfast on a heavy wooden tray, the smell of jam and tea drifting through the room.

Then I swallowed a lump of sour milk.

My stomach turned instantly. I tried to power through, but this was not a “mind over matter” situation. If I were British, I’d say, “It was all rather chummy until I lost my cookies.” Instead, I vomited into my teacup while running to the kitchen sink.

Which, naturally, was clogged.

I grabbed a long spoon to fish the water away from the drain, which triggered a flashback: my housewarming party, thirteen years ago. Someone had vomited into a sink full of dirty dishes and cold grey water. My friend Andrew, God bless him, plunged his bare hand in and pulled the plug. Hero status, permanently granted. Thinking about that heroic act made me puke harder.

And then came the pregnancy plot twist: when you strain at seven months, the bladder taps out. So now I was vomiting, peeing, and thinking, “Life is really taking the piss out of me today.”

Then I started to cry.

Not a cinematic single tear, oh no. This was the Niagara Falls of hormone-fuelled despair: tears, snot, gagging, more pee. Every time I reached for the spoon to scoop the sink, my body staged another revolt.

I called it. Day over.

After a shower, I crawled into bed. My husband asked what was wrong. Between sniffling and trying not to inhale a lungful of snot, I said, “I peed my pants.”

It sounded ridiculous even as it left my mouth. “I’m crying hysterically because I barfed and peed my pants. Please hold me.”

He did.

Later, he admitted he struggled reeeeeally hard not to laugh. And in hindsight, I can see how absurd the situation must have been to him.

God, I love that man.