There’s an old midwives saying that describes the three trimesters of pregnancy as “dreary,” “cheery,” and “weary.” I wish. That indicates there’s a period between the first trimester (constant illness, relentless mood swings) and the third trimester (when you’re huge and exhausted) that feels good.
I didn’t experience this glittering promised land of a second trimester. All I got were bouts of moodiness, tender breasts, an overactive bladder, and a fatigue that dragged me into a black hole of sleep almost every night.
Walking around while my body built another body inside of itself and fed that body off my body was unbelievably tiring. I had a bruised rib for six weeks. My heightened sense of smell engaged code-red emergency bouts of oh-my-god-I’m-gonna-barf. Normal digestive habits disappeared, replaced with terrible constipation. The worst case of heartburn I’ve ever had came from my one true beverage love, coffee, which I had to give up as a result. And I haven’t even told you about “morning” (all day) sickness. Short version: dry heaves, yellow bile, heartburn after lunch, gagging nausea, indigestion. Eating for two? I could barely eat for one, since pretty much everything I put in my mouth gave me some sort of negative reaction.
