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The exhaustion is something I totally forgot about, but returns with a vengeance. The cruelty of it, is combined with the horrific nightmares and constant bathroom trips (gotta drink that water!), is the pre-existing condition of a first born child that hates to sleep. I’m tired and cranky all the time.

The nausea returns but is mitigated by constant snacking, which I unfortunately give into in a big way. If it’s bad for me, I want to eat it, and in large quantities. I go through two quarts of Italian ice in a week. I polish off Girl Scout cookies by the sleeve. Oreos are double stuf or gtfo. I rediscover my affinity for orange soda. I put on ten pounds in about a month. It’s problematic to say the least.
My body remembers being pregnant and wants to push out way too early in places where definitely no baby is. When my son was running out of real estate in the last few months of my first pregnancy, he’d push his little bottom up and out just under my sternum. The muscles remember and I catch a bulge pushing out in spite of the actual uterus never extending above my hip bones. I’m not even carrying high enough for the doctor to read a Doppler heartbeat and yet this phantom bump wants to present itself.

The thing I miss most about my non-pregnancy days is the ability to alter my consciousness, even slightly, with alcohol. It feels stupid and selfish to write those words, but getting to my 35th year of life I feel certain entitlements in my adulthood. Having that restriction, but also the judgement of onlookers makes me feel like I’m asking them to condone me smoking crack or something.

In truth, contrary to what the cdc would have you believe, there’s a good longitudinal study of women who consumed up to three drinks per day and found no significant difference between those births and women who had no alcohol at all. Not that I’d want to drink that much.
Truth be told, having even one full drink feels excessive so perhaps the condition itself lends itself to the craving. Still, the prospect of waiting half a year to enjoy a beer seems awful. And, if the first experience was any indication, by the time I can, I’ll be to tired to want to. 

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