32w5d - The Mister noticed it first: Me scrunching my nose at carrot sticks over lunch yesterday, then pouring back my serving of spicy squash soup this afternoon, then complaining that tonight's tilapia just tasted … wonky. "It's fine," he said, shoveling my fish onto his plate. "It's really good, actually. And those biscuits are, too." The biscuits, though—those I could handle.
Until I saw they were touching the broccoli. Barf.
Oh please let the next seven weeks not be a carby-mac-and-cheese-and-saltine redux. We are finally down to a lone box of Annie's in the pantry, two half-jars of pickles in the fridge, and a picked-over pack of Preggie Pops in the cupboard, all souvenirs from my first woozy trimester.
When I returned home from my trip three nights ago and began unpacking, I found an errant Sea-Band at the bottom of a bathroom vanity drawer, all tangled up in hair strands and crushed antihistamines and toothpaste crust. I shuddered remembering how, not five months ago, I'd dutifully snap these sweatbands on my wrists each morning like some pukey, fashion-backwards gym rat. Back then, I pretended that those white nubs on the inside of the bands were nausea pause buttons, and I can clearly recall the day when—after running once again to heave following a run-in with a legume—I chucked the bands into the drawer, peeved and sour at their inefficacy.
Now, here one was again, its mate still somewhere in the depths of medicine and toiletry miscellany. Back on the Tilt-a-Whirl, bozo? it taunted.
Returned queasiness aside, this week's true 'That's Weird' Award goes to my newly arrived Braxton Hicks contractions. I noticed them first during my trip out West, when I found myself first intrigued one afternoon by a mild cramp and then nearly doubled over moments later as the baby gave me a swift kick during the next, more jarring one. The previous several weeks before, I'd gotten used to the dull, numb ache near the top of my ribs, where the ligaments in my chest were stretching to accommodate this rapidly growing (and flailing) baby's uterine home. But this crampiness was new news, and a frantic Googling confirmed my suspicions: The 'Hicks had arrived.
Since then, the baby just needs to lie in a certain horizontal pose cross my belly, limbs outstretched as if to gauge just how much give my uterus has (not much, kid) for me to anticipate several minutes of spasms. These contractions are unpleasant and somewhat scary but, I know, altogether harmless. I can basically talk through them and know that lying down sends them packing.
Now I'm just bracing myself for whatever weirdness comes next.