... that is how a friend of mine, who is currently pregnant with her seventh child, described pregnancy. So far, I think the comparision holds. Even though the baby doesn't even have the size of a sesame seed, it manages to work me harder than any drill sergeant. At least that is what I tell myself when I fall back onto the bed, exhausted, right after breakfast. As to food, well, I doubt even MRE's taste as bad as my food. Now don't get me wrong, I make good food, except for meat or fish of which I can't stand the scent and which my husband has to make. The problem is that it just doesn't taste the way it should. My current table manners certainly belong in bootcamp. I burp enough to win a navy contest. A bit more information than you wanted perhaps, but honestly the only thing that sort of diminishes the feeling of nausea.
Pregnancy also builds character... no more courageous woman than the one who, stomach unsettled and sensitive to the slightest scent, still opens the dishwasher that hasn't been turned on for two days. No more determined woman, than the one whose husband has put the crackers on the top shelf where she just can't reach them. And no more potentially violent woman than the one who suposedly has her first appointment with an OBGYN, but then finds herself back on the street after an hour in which nurses take blood, weight, height and answer sixthousand questions, but can't even reply whether or not you can use nosespray or take the time to actually tell you a bit about what is going on in your body. My husbands' case for sainthood has grown quite a bit this week, heroic patience must be a virtue, especially when your wife wants to take the first plane back to Belgium where they don't plan 25 appointments for one pregnancy, most of them in which you probably don't even get to SEE a doctor.
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