The Olympics are Killing Me

So, I've been holding off on writing this post because I wanted to have a good attitude because I feel my next blog entry after this flattering one from Breigh at Canadutch should be in good spirits. (I blushed when I read it - she's very sweet to have picked me).

However, this pregnancy is giving me a bad attitude, so I'm just going to let you have it. First of all - why on God's green earth is Olympic coverage so freaking late at night? If I start watching at 7:30 or 8:00 when it comes on, I MUST CONTINUE WATCHING until Greg pries the remote out of my fingers while I sleep and even then I muster the strength to rouse myself enough to mumble about needing to stay awake to watch the last two figure skaters -- because if I go to bed, they can not possibly succeed to their full potential.

Mid-week last week I had a terrible flashback to the Summer Olympics a few years ago. I suddenly remembered being completely sleep deprived, performing my daily tasks with the energy of a b-movie zombie, and then going home to watch Michael Phelps win his 47th through 50th Gold medals at FREAKING LATE O'clock. This must be what other women talk about when they tell me that while Pregnancy was not a piece of cake - the horrible memories fade away after you give birth. I had completely forgotten that the Summer Olympics had reduced me to a drooling sleep-hungry nematode. And that's why I let the Winter Olympics draw me in to begin the same trans-formative process! And on top of all of that - I know the Winter Olympics get some flack for being not-as-interesting as their Summer sibling, but I find both equally fascinating. It's not like Michael Phelps faced the possibility of being gored on foot long razor sharp blades attached to the feet of his competitors as they barrel down their swim lanes.

Also, I am now officially on prescription Nausea medication. The last straw came last weekend, when Crab legs appealed to me for three days straight - and then promptly did not. Unfortunately, my stomach changed its mind directly after I had ingested about a pound of them and then I spent one of the most unpleasant 20 minutes of my life bent over the nearest trash can. Then I broke down and called my OBGYN almost crying - begging them to give me a second chance. The last time I was in their office they freely OFFERED ME PRESCRIPTION MEDS and I TURNED THEM DOWN. I am an idiot. Thankfully they quickly acquiesced and Greg picked up a bottle of 10 of the tiniest white pills I have ever seen in my life. Apparently they can only give me 10 at a time because us pregnant women - we're CRAZY and CAN NOT BE TRUSTED with NAUSEA MEDICATION.

So I take one every 6 hours and have to get a refill every three days explaining over and over again to nurse at the dr.'s office that yes, I realize I'm in my second trimester, I have not been on these meds for longer than a week, and can you please for the love of all that is sacred just send the next prescription in?? Spectacular. This is so. Much. Fun.

Also, I either have severe indigestion from whatever I eat or I have started to feel the baby flap its little butterfly wings - because that's what it feels like. So I can totally take heart that I'm growing a giant butterfly in my Uterus that has sucked any and all joy out of eating - a process that I apparently need to participate in 6-8 times a day in order to not throw up. This does not compute. I need to put something in my stomach so that nothing comes up out of there. My head thinks this is stupid - I should put less in there so that there's less to anger the stomach gods. Instead, my Stomach has decided that it is much like a very angry Volcano on an island in the middle of the south pacific where human sacrifices are required to keep it from exploding. And that's about how pleasant eating feels to me.