In summary: not great, but it’s not (quite) my fault.
I had great intentions. I had an amazing week planner with two morning and two afternoon work sessions and plenty of breaks (plottable with post-it notes for the week ahead so I could customise my week depending on circumstances). Despite my husband being bed-ridden post ankle-reconstruction, I managed about half a week of solid, hitting-the-goals work. (It was great: I was getting a scene revised per session, which basically meant I only needed two sessions scheduled a day to hit par and any more was gravy.) I had the week of dinners all planned out in advance, and as a bonus, Mr Dee was finally getting to watch all that television I hadn’t been interested in because ugh middle-aged white guys (like Breaking Bad).
And then, turns out I got pregnant.
In accordance with some sort of etiquette, I’m still too early to be telling people. (Sidebar: I’m not sure I approve of this etiquette. The information threshold was always presented to me as “there’s so many things that can go wrong before that” and… why don’t we talk about this again? It’s a totally natural thing for things to go wrong and, frankly, I think it would be healthier if we just treated is as a natural thing. Obviously this is an entirely personal choice, and my stance probably has a lot to do with my casual approach to this whole thing, but anyway.) But when you’re feeling vaguely vomitous all day, people are going to start noticing. And they ask questions. And you feel really, really stupid saying, “No, I have no idea why I’m feeling like this.”
Morning sickness – or as I like to call it, The Stomach, because it’s got more of a looming, mysterious, pervasive, all-day quality about it – is no fucking fun at all. My entire day revolves around The Stomach and how it’s feeling right now, because its demands are peremptory and mercurial. It is hungry almost all the time, but doesn’t want that or that or especially that ugh what. If, fed up with it, I don’t try putting food into it for too long, it sends me limp and listless while it churns itself merrily into the sort of queasy that makes you never want to hear about food ever again. Nothing makes any sense – dairy is fine (not usually the case for me) but don’t talk to me about tasty things like olives or pizza. Celery is randomly delicious sometimes, and revolting other times. I can sit there looking at a bowl of food with my stomach simultaneously growling in hunger and with nausea. How is it possible? LOOK NOT INTO THE GODDAMN ABYSS.
Add to all this the fact that I was on 100% of the food acquisition and preparation duty (not to mention the rest of the household chores) because Mr Dee couldn’t get out of bed, and you start to appreciate how I have been getting nothing done. I mean, it makes sense. It’s totally understandable. That hasn’t stopped me being hella grumpy about it. I’ve completely blown my personal end-of-February deadline for revisions, and a few other commitments have fallen by the wayside as well.
But things are starting to smooth out a little. I’m wrestling The Stomach into a stalemate with a combination of drugs, ginger beer, peppermint tea and sneaky ambush tactics. I have a husband who no longer needs looking after and can even drive me around some, even if he can’t help with the cooking yet. I have caught up on my housework.
So I’m going to try the week planner again for next week. I’m being circumspect. I’m giving myself lots of time in the mornings, because some days eating my toast genuinely does take an hour and a half. I’m leaving that post-lunch often-nap zone light as well. Oh, and I have family arriving on Tuesday, so that’s going to be a little messy too.
But hold the damn horse steady; I’m getting back on.