Mr. Right-Click brought me a copy of Us magazine yesterday to peruse during the 30 or so hours earlier this week in which I did not get out of bed except to vomit or to attempt not to vomit by sitting in the shower. He added it to the pile of offerings that is slowly accumulating on my bedside table: a bag full of like 25 Cadbury creme eggs, a two pound box of See’s Candy from Valentine’s Day, three or four water bottles with straws in them, assorted flavors of Gatorade, and the occasional (hopeful) bowl of pretzels or plate of cheese slices.
I don’t always (ever) say it, but Mr. Right-Click is great husband to me. He always takes care of me, even when I don’t deserve it. Lately, he has had to up his game a few notches to pick up the sizable slack I’ve left behind with the running of the household. He has kept Mini eating (and even eating vegetables! sometimes) and clothed, cleaned up after him and kept the kitchen spotless for the past two weeks, all the while being careful to keep offensive smells out of my general vicinity.
But I know I am a sad sack. It’s patently obvious: I look like the walking dead. But even without being able to recognize that fact myself, there’s the pile of gifts on my bedside table, which stand in for Mr. Right-Click’s worry and wishing that he could make this all go away. I know he buys me the candy because one day he hopes to come home and find me working my way through the Cadbury Eggs, because that will mean I am better and we can all go back to normal. And if you know me at all, you know that the fact that the Cadbury eggs haven’t been touched is bad news, because my hands would be covered in chocolate and fondant filling the second I felt there was an even remote chance of being able to keep them down.
The Us magazine was notable, because even if usually I’m not that into reading about celebrity gossip, I found it uncharacteristically enjoyable to read this time. I guess when your brain functioning is compromised, and you have a burning desire to escape reality, there is nothing quite like the Us magazine. (And just like that a newfound understanding of the unbelievable money involved in the paparazzi industry in the United States clicks into place — now I get it.)
I learned from Us Magazine that Kate Hudson (who is now about five months pregnant) is having a “difficult pregnancy” in that the first few months she was so sick that she was only able to gain one pound. I found this mention of morning sickness interesting because it is just so unusual. Usually we don’t hear about celebrities being pregnant until they are at least past the first trimester, and though I understand taking that precaution it is frustrating from a pregnant lady’s perspective because it makes pregnancy look so goddamn fucking easy. It’s always like, oh! look Angelina and Brad are expecting twins, and then like three months later the twins are born, and Angelina’s already skinny again, almost as if the pregnancy itself was just a cameo she did as a favor for a friend.
Celebrities certainly shouldn’t be expected to give us the details of their personal lives, but I wish they would at least give it a rest with the whole making-pregnancy-look-easy bullshit. It’s really a disservice to the rest of us, who find ourselves pregnant and miserable, and are encouraged by this kind of thinking that suggests if you hate your pregnancy you will be a horrible mother, or that you are just a big baby who can’t cope. Probably there are women out there who love being pregnant, who think it’s a magical time — but I don’t know any of them personally. And if I met one of them today I’d have a hard time not junk-punching them, frankly.
Becoming Mini’s mother was one of the best things that ever happened to me. But when I was pregnant with him I wanted to die. Since I’ve done this before, I know that feeling like I want to die from the constant nausea is normal. I know that it doesn’t mean anything about what kind of mother I will be to this kid, just like it didn’t mean anything with Mini. But just once I’d like somebody else to say that, too, instead of perpetuating the myth that this is all so easy and magical, and anyone who says anything else is a sad sack who isn’t fit to be a parent. It’s just not true.