Now that that's out of the way, I've hit what I am calling a "plateau in my sanity" this week. Why you ask? It could be the fact that I can no longer sleep through the night since I wake up multiple times to:
a. pee
b. eat
c. shift around uncomfortably in bed
d. kick my husband for putting me into this particular state of discomfort
e. bolt upright in cold sweats thinking about raising a child
I suppose this is all good training for the sleep deprivation I'm about to endure at the hands of my tiny, tyrant fetus but at the moment it just sucks. And you know what I could really use?
A DRINK.
It is the height of irony that the moment you find out you can't drink for 9 months is the moment you need one the worst. When I peed on that fateful stick in February (at work no less) I almost got down on my knees and bargained away my soul to Sweet Baby Lucifer in exchange for a Gin & Tonic that wouldn't grow babyVal an extra big toe. And even though I've heard the requisite calming anecdotes, "A little sip won't hurt" or "The Irish say that Guinness is good for babies" or "My drunk Aunt Sally drank martinis all through her pregnancy and cousin Ralph is fine! He's getting out of prison any day now!" I remain firmly on the sobriety train for now.
Everyone told me that being pregnant during the summer would suck. I assumed it was because of the heat but no, it's because everywhere you look the NON knocked up crowd is enjoying the pleasures of summer...margaritas, mojitos, summer beers, meat grilled to medium rare perfection...and I can't have ANY of it. And there is only so much lemonade I can handle people. I WANT A DAMN MARGARITA!
Side note: I think I yelled that very same thing about 90 minutes before babyVal was conceived. But I digress.
Back to the point. Worse than actually not being able to drink wine for 9 months are the smug, glowy, mother Earth types that tell you with a straight face that they "Didn't even miss it." I stare back into their glassy eyes and announce, "Bullshit". If you tell me you didn't miss it for 9 months I'm going to assume one of the following is true:
a. you are a pathological liar
b. you are Mormon/Duggar style Christian or have other religious reasons that preclude you from drinking
c. you are a pathological liar
d. you are a sadist who enjoys torturing a pregnant woman on the edge
Whatever the reason, should you stumble upon me in real life and find me staring longingly into an empty champagne flute, don't judge me. Don't tell me that O'Douls tasted just like real beer or that it was great for your skin or that you loved the energy that comes with sobriety. Just pat me on the back, tell me it'll be over soon and that one day I'll laugh when I spy some miserable sober pregnant lady across the bar.
XOXO,
