At 1 PM, some extreme nausea hit. By 3 PM, I was hugging my puke bucket and hollering for a big kid to put Abigail back in her crib for a second afternoon nap. It took me until 9 PM to make it quivering out of my bed. I rejoiced in eating some plain spaghetti and laughed at my pathetic condition with my husband. "Getting Knocked Up, Means Getting Knocked Down."
I feel like most of the advice that I receive as a pregnant woman is on how to "avoid getting knocked down." Take ginger pills or Zofron. Order Take-out. Hire a cleaning lady and a Mother's Aide. For heaven sakes, stop homeschooling this year.
The thing is, I'm not a novice pregnant lady by the sixth time around. I've tried all the easy solutions. I've taken all the advice from my doctor and from my friends. What's left is just a period of "hardness" in early pregnancy, no matter how much ginger ale I have stocked inside my kitchen.
This time around, I'm getting more comfortable with "Getting Knocked Down." I'm losing control. I've lost focus in my prayer life. My laundry schedule is behind. Dinner is plain and simple. Often times, Jon has to finish mashing the potatoes for dinner because I need a nap at 5:45 PM.
On Friday, we had a birthday party for Tess with a grocery store made cake, Breyer's ice-cream, and no balloons at 9:30 PM. It was sweet and lovely and perfect. It's a reminder to me that none of my impressive birthday party ideas matter to my kids (and I'm such a happy party planner in regular life).
Only love matters.
St. Teresa of Avila, patroness of the sick, pray for me. Help me find contentment in my helplessness during early pregnancy. This is a special gift.