 |
Baby stats:
Current size: 1.0cm
Weight: Nearly registering
Milestone: Heart began beating!
Aimee's key symptom: Nausea
Comparable to: Swallowing a live tadpole, then thinking about it. Bleh!
Developed this week: Arm and leg buds, and a tail (No, we are NOT growing
the spawn of Satan, thanks for asking)
|
 |
 |
|
Aimee's thoughts:
What a difference a week makes. Last week I was a-okay, this week it's puke central. I'm beginning to see that perhaps pregnancy is not all baby ducklings and happy knowing smiles.
Let me begin by telling you how much I absolutely HATE to throw up. I believe I've only thrown up about five times in my life - each of those my own fault and thus I was fully deserving of the punishment. I was also probably only half-sober at the time of such events, which I think actually helps to soften the blow.
Now, I'm stone cold sober and it's a nasty business indeed. And if I'm not throwing up, I'm feeling like I might. This makes going to work on the tube a brave action - pregnant women should NOT place themselves inside a shaky, loud, metal tube with no escape when they think they could throw up at any moment.
And can you imagine the embarrassment of throwing up on the guy next to you as he casually reads about the latest travel deals in the Metro? These are people who give you dirty looks if you accidentally step on their shoes. What would they do if I threw up on them? I'm going to do my absolute best not to find out. You see, I've got a tube-puke-plan:
Stage One: The Car Selection
Always select an end car, as these are the least packed at rush hour.
 | |  |
|
The Complete Commuter Puke Pack. If you see an unattended one, DON'T PICK IT UP. Trust me. |
|
 | |  |
Stage Two: The Puke Pack
Carry a cleverly disguised expensive shopping bag with you. People will be less inclined to think you're a homeless bum if you're puking into a Chanel (or in my case, Oasis - that's as posh as I get) carrybag. Line the bag for multiple uses, or else you'll be down to a Tesco bag in no time and people will think you're a bum.
Stage Three: The Quick Exit
Should you feel a puke coming on, immediately jump off at the next stop. As you'll be in the end car, you should be able to find a somewhat discreet corner to go into.
Stage Four: The Clean-up
Your Puke Pack should also contain tissues, mints, toothpaste, and a bottle of water. Clean your self up, discreetly dispose of the Chanel/Oasis inner lining, hold your head up high and carry on with your day!
So that's the theory designed to get me through a nasty spell on the tube. Let's hope that I never, ever have to put it into practice. It may sound good on paper, but as Kev and I learned with the Snake Drills, sometimes the best laid plans go to pot in a crisis situation.
As for puking at work, I really wouldn't mind this so much. I'm thinking that if I throw up in the bathroom, and someone walks in on me, then my secret is out - no more need to hide. And it wouldn't be my fault! Not that I'll be deliberately trying to put the news out there, but would that really be such a bad thing?
|
|
|
|
|
  |
|
Kevin's thoughts:
I should begin by stating that there are two inaccuracies with this week's cartoon (not the sperm with
the map, the other one). First, the tie. See you probably looked at the picture and thought, "Aha, Kev
must be at work because he's wearing a tie." That was the intention, and you fell for it. However, a
more accurate picture of me at work would have shown me NOT wearing a tie. In fact, the only tie I've
ever worn at work was given to me by Ross in membership who was clearing out bulk storage and found a
box of old ties. But, in the grand scheme, I wouldn't have expected you to think, "Aha, Kev must be at
work because he's NOT wearing a tie." Ergo, the tie. Inaccuracy #1 explained.
Secondly, the seating positions. Cartoon-Holly is sitting in Real-Alexandra's seat, while Cartoon-Alexandra
has been placed in Real-Lynn's seat. Do you care? Probably not, I just like to be thorough.
You may be asking, "But where is Cartoon-Lynn?" Sadly, she is not a part of this story, nor is Cartoon-Tracey.
You see, Alexandra and Holly and I all have something in common. Only they don't know it yet.
Both Holly's sister and Alexandra's sister-in-law are pregnant (or, as a citizen of Leicester would
eloquently put it, "oop the doof"). They both just found out last week. One's eight weeks, the other 14,
which means Monday morning chit-chat is all about babies.
"How's your sister?"
"Eee, starting to show!"
"Eeee!"
"EEEEE! How's yours?"
"EEEEEEE, that cow, she's pregnant and she looks better than me in a swimsuit."
And so on. In all honesty, I'd like to be EEEEing along with them, but I can't. No one's supposed to know
about my little one on the way. EEEE!
Which means that I have to be doubly-careful what I say around these two. You see, in a conversation
about babies and pregnancies, the only males who can actively participate are dads, or dads-to-be.
The sum total of the average boy's clinical knowledge of pregnancy lies in the statement "Babies grow
in mommy's tummy" until the baby in question is theirs. Go on, ask your average bloke what a falopian
tube is for (other than the potential for a dirty limerick involving an Ethiopian).
But, when that bloke is on his way to becoming a dad, you just watch him suck up the information like
a copy of FHM (unless he's a deadbeat dad, in which case he's probably still reading FHM). The baby becomes
a cool sciencey-thing that he's somehow involved in the creation of. Suddenly, he's a biological genius.
Well, I am anyway. I can't help it. I like learnin'.
But, if I turn to Alexandra and say, "Oh, so has her uterus moved in front of her pelvic wall yet?"
or, "Jeepers, Holly, that must mean your sister's placenta is nearing the size of a small apple!"
they'll all know something's up. "Oh REALLY, Kevin!" they'll say in a sing-song voice while raising
and lowering their eyebrows, "That's FAScinating! And how do YOU know so
much about this stuff HMMMMMM?!"
At which point, the only foreseeable loophole through which I, the secret-dad-to-be, may be able
to escape would be
something to the effect of, "oh... er... there was a... thing on the Discovery channel?" I say MAY
be able to escape, since, let's face it guys, if Aimee wasn't pregnant I'd have flipped the channel.
Plus, they know I don't have the Discovery channel. You usually need a TV for that.
So, the subterfuge continues. Keep a low profile, smile dumbly at baby conversations that use
words larger than "womb" or "months", and radiate a tone of mild disinterest, like when they're
all talking about shoes, or Eastenders.
And when someone asks me if I had an interesting weekend, I must - MUST -
remember to simply shrug and say, "Oh, you know. Same old, same old," when deep down inside, what
I'd really rather be saying is EEEEEEEEEEE!
|
|
 |
 |
Did you know? |
 |
|
It's possible to get so dehydrated from vomiting that you have to be hospitalised! Jeepers! This
condition is rare, but it's certainly something to watch out for, thanks to the book 'Expecting'.
I now know what to do if I begin vomiting seven times a day. There's nothing like knowing the
worst-case scenario to bring you peace of mind.
|
|
|
People in the know |
|
|
 Kate at Girlguiding knows! Thank goodness someone
does - I think I would go mental if I couldn't
share this news with someone at work! Whew! Kate, needless to say, is incredibly excited and quite
possibly a little... envious?
|
|
|
Aimee's cravings |
|
|
I've spent the past two days literally thinking about nothing but lasagne, and now I find it difficult
to even type the word lasagne without getting sick to my stomach. Ick. Be right back.
|
|
|
|
|
Aimee's Book of the Week |
|
|
 Expecting: Everything You Need to Know About Pregnancy, Labour and Birth
By Anna McGrail and Daphne Metland
A scare-tactic of a book - life is an obstacle course with baby-killing danger lurking around every corner. Don't bother unless you thrive on hypochondria.
|
|
 |
| |
In the future, babies will have chips implanted in their brains to communicate
instantly with their parents by thought.
However, in the present, we'll just have to settle for
printing out your emails and shouting through the skin of Aimee's belly.
|
|
 |
|
|
