So, where did we leave off? Ah, yes…that part.

I don’t know how it is for everyone else, but the first time I’m sick with “morning” sickness, I wonder if I’ll literally puke up something necessary for survival. A lung. Liver. My intestines.

I enjoy a light, healthy lunch at O’Charley’s with my husband and my parents. I’m feeling pretty good about myself because I’ve been the epitome of health ever since I found out about Baby. I give up caffeine cold-turkey, I eat lots of veggies, drink lots of milk. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

It’s not hard, I think condescendingly.

A few hours later, and …and what? I can’t describe it. I just don’t feel good. But, I don’t feel sick. I just…Ew.

A few more hours. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t feel sick-sick, but I have to…

Oh gawd, something’s gotta come out.

I sit on the toilet and rest my head on the cool surface of the sink in front of me, breathing deeply. Fifteen minutes or so later, I’m still deep-breathing, resting my head against the sink. I know this has to happen, only I can’t accept it. I slowly turn around and kneel before the commode that is my firing squad.

I wait.

I heave.

I. have. never had a puking experience like that one before. I don’t mean to be crass, or gross. I’m just being honest, because that’s what an incredulous mom does – she shares the nasty truth when things tend to be otherwise romanticized. Morning sickness happens at all hours. And it’s horrendous.

It all comes out with such forceful precision that it splashes right back up onto my face, neck and arms. I do what any strong, independent woman would do – I sob. My whimpers seem to say, “Wait…what?” as I shakily wipe myself off and gargle about twenty times with mouthwash. Meanwhile, I decide its best to shudder and sigh as loudly as I can so that Hubs will come up and feel really sorry for me. He must not have heard.

And now…I am officially incredulous. They say pregnancy is such a beautiful thing…I suppose it is. But after barfing up things I shudder to think of, I am so skeptical that pregnancy is anything but horrible, that I decide that very night, once and for all – THIS will be my last baby. I can’t do this again. I just can’t.

In the 4-5 weeks that follow, I grow evermore convinced that I am, in fact, carrying Rosemary’s baby. I even start referring to it as “little Andy or Jenny.” I begin to take on the same emaciated pallor as Rosemary…after she drank the shakes. I love the creature inside of me, but I resent it for making me pull over into a stranger’s driveway to ralph-and-run. I resent little Andy or Jenny for making me hate the smell of my very expensive face wash, the smell of otherwise freshly scented things like soap, certain lotions, and worst of all, parmesan. I resent little Andy or Jenny for making me spend at least fifty bucks on car air fresheners, each one with the intent of removing the sickly scent of the last.

I count the days that seem to drag on. I’m nowhere close to the second trimester, or the appointment when we hear the heartbeat. I have nothing to keep me going. I hate going to work, because I feel so exhausted. I hope that no one catches me at my desk just staring, waiting for the day to be over so I can go to sleep.

Fun times.

The funny thing is…as I type this, I’m already planning for having our second child. Turns out, it’s not Rosemary’s baby in there after all.