The days leading up up vacation are always hell. I’m overwhelmed with the innate feeling of responsibility for the work that won’t get done in my absence, the fear that my petty and vindictive colleagues will fuck with me while I’m gone, the guilt of leaving the cats (who are bordering on “special needs”) alone with a stranger, the uncertainty of leaving the country and the dread that there will be some inevitable clusterfuck awaiting my return. I’m hoping that all of our carefully made arrangements will indeed work out.

I woke up dry heaving this morning, unable to produce anything but bile. The noise lead my husband to begin pacing nervously behind me as I hunched over the toilet. “Are you okay?” he asks. Um, no, I’m clearly barfing so something’s wrong. Of course, his mind is alight with the possibility that I might finally be pregnant. However, my gut is more likely telling me that my blood pressure has spiked following a restless night contemplating the million things that must be accomplished today.

He hassles me over my morning cup of coffee, thinking of the potential fetus and the harm that the caffeine could cause. I’m not sure what to say to reassure him, having never really been down this road myself. We compromise that the minute a positive test is in hand, I will gladly relent on the coffee.

I get a bit weepy in the car on the way to work, another mysterious symptom attributable to both pregnancy and the feeling of being completely overwhelmed. No answers there, and because I took time out of my morning routine to barf, now I’m running late getting to work. Arriving at my desk, I’m hyper attentive, but generally unable to focus on any one task. I’m so distracted that I forget to even put on my music. I catch myself dicking around on the Internet, give myself a stern talking to and try to get focused on making instructional screenshots for the person who’ll be covering for me.