Blueberry

The baby is about the size of a blueberry this week. Not sure if it's one of those big, fat, juicy perfect-tasting blueberries, or those little, tart ones that are good in pie. But in honor of our little blueberry, we went to Sauvie Island to pick some of our own - which happens to be one of the few healthy foods I am interested in eating these days.

Speaking of eating, I had canned corn for breakfast Monday, blueberry pancakes for breakfast Tuesday, a banana and blueberry smoothie for breakfast Wednesday, and chips and mild queso for breakfast today ... My mind sort of feels like this rolodex of foods. It's like it constantly scans through all the possible meal choices - Mexican (burritos, nachos, enchiladas ...), Italian (meatball sub, pizza, lasagna, noodles ...), American (hot dog, cheeseburger, french fries ...), snack foods (popcorn, chips and salsa, ice cream, Goldfish crackers ...), fruit (blueberries, blueberries, blueberries ...), Asian (pad thai, ramen, pho, salad rolls ...) - until it selects one that sounds appealing. Like that iPhone app, Urbanspoon, that works like a slot machine and spins three columns at once to select your final dining out choice. At that moment, the one where my mind decides something actually sounds appealing, I go instantly from feeling nauseous and fatigued to feeling inspired. It is then and only then I can drag my lazy butt out of my PJ's and out of the apartment to the grocery store to buy said food. And then sometimes, this food loses its appeal by the time I make it to the store. That means it's not going to be a good day. I'm grateful I'm not praying to the porcelain gods daily, but I certainly am getting my fair share of waves of nausea. Not sure how I'm going to surf these waves once I'm back in the workplace.

Overall, this little blueberry is already giving her mama a run for her money. Or at least, I constantly feel like I'm been running a half-marathon. In other words, I'm tired. Damned tired. I oscillate between feeling like I ingested two Xanax PLUS two Dramamine (as I once did to ride a ferry during a storm in Brazil), and feeling like it would take every ounce of willpower and energy just to get up and pause Friday Night Lights streaming instant on Netflix so I can pee. I usually get a solid two-hour burst of energy at some point during the day, but that's pretty much all I've got. The dishes go undone. Gizzy goes unwalked. The house goes unvaccumed. I go unshowered. You get the picture. Thank god I'm not working. And even if I was, I don't know that I'd still have a job after my energy level plummeted the last two weeks.

As for my boobs. Those are a whole different story. I have always been of the well-endowed variety. Nothing I'm particularly proud of, as I envy girls who can go bra-less in flimsy summer dresses. Or who can buy swimsuits at places like Victoria's Secret. Or who can run or jump or play without the threat of a black eye. Needless to say, this whole pregnancy thing has done a number on my chest. I feel like a circus freak. And I can't believe it's only Week 7. What am I going to do when my milk comes in?!? All the books say breast tenderness is one of the early symptoms of pregnancy. And they are correct. I have had sore boobs exactly one time ever while PMSing. I now know what I have been missing. And I am not sad.

Alex wants me to be this happy, ever-glowing pregnant lady. Boy would I like to be that lady. But at this point, I feel like a lazy beached whale - and I'm not even two months along. I keep crossing my fingers that the second trimester will be like this breath of fresh air. That's when I'll do all the prenatal yoga the women in the magazines make look so easy. Or when I'll eat a vegetable at every meal, or at least daily. And when I'll decorate a nursery, and sew baby clothes, and knit a baby blanket, and cook my husband dinner, and clean the house. And work. Since I'm going to have to go back in about 6 weeks.