So this morning I was a little nauseated while brushing my teeth, but that's it. Awhile later, feeling fine, all dressed and ready for work, I walked into my kitchen. I took one step, starting gagging, and had to run to the toilet to dry heave and expel bile from my empty stomach. Good times.
I know I've mentioned the kitchen before. If it came from our kitchen, I won't eat it. I officially now can't use the back door and have to give up my covered parking so that I don't have to walk around the block every time I leave the house. Gross, gross, gross. I hate that place and don't know if I'll ever go in there again. For those of you who haven't been to our house, our kitchen is really tiny, and it has this built in, really high, open pantry, which I used to think was super cool but has become the bane of my pregnancy existance. I literally think we might have to give away every single thing in there.
John has been really sweet about it, but I know he doesn't understand. If he thought I was exagerrating before, all doubts disappeared this morning when he saw me doubling over the toilet, mere minutes after I'd kissed him goodbye and told him everything was fine. All I managed to utter were the words, "The kitchen."
At least I never worry about the baby. When you have every first trimester pregnancy symptom known to woman, including an anteater's sense of smell (40 times that of humans), all you think about is yourself. All I can do is pray that this stuff will go away in a few weeks. And if I have to keep some of them, please, Lord, take the super smell. Otherwise I'm going to have to find some noseplugs online- stat.
Oh, and I'm sorry there haven't been any pictures for awhile. I broke the camera at Lara's bachelorette party, as most of you know, and I don't remember how it happened. Ah, those were the days (two and a half months ago).
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