Because I am inundated with the side effects of growing a human, I have nothing interesting to tell you all, except my symptoms, which I will look back on someday and say, "Oh, it wasn't all that bad!" I am telling you now, future Me: It's pretty fucking bad.
Just to lay it out, super TMI style:
-Nausea, but not just the morning kind. All the damn time kind.
-Extreme hunger. But only for strange, unattainable foods, stuff I never keep in the house.
-Round ligament pain. What's new?
-Constipation. Yay me.
-Diarrhea. My body can't make up its mind.
-Pregnancy-induced allergies. My eyes, ears, nose, throat are all itching constantly, and I have the eternal drip.
-Exhaustion. Need I say more?
-Breathlessness. Seriously, the stairs are killing me, yo.
-Inability to go back to sleep. What a bitch.
That's me. Can't eat sunny-side up eggs anymore, can't get comfortable, can't take most allergy meds.
Such is the life of pregnant me. Can't wait for the second trimester.
Also, this is nice:
The world does not need words. It articulates itself
in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the path
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.
The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.
The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.
And one word transforms it into something less or other—
illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal, covert.
Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of hands
glancing the skin or gripping a shoulder, the slow
arching of neck or knee, the silent touching of tongues.
Yet the stones remain less real to those who cannot
name them, or read the mute syllables graven in silica.
To see a red stone is less than seeing it as jasper—
metamorphic quartz, cousin to the flint the Kiowa
carved as arrowheads. To name is to know and remember.
The sunlight needs no praise piercing the rainclouds,
painting the rocks and leaves with light, then dissolving
each lucent droplet back into the clouds that engendered it.
The daylight needs no praise, and so we praise it always—
greater than ourselves and all the airy words we summon.