6 weeks 3 days

 If you told me snorting coke would make me feel better I would go into my car, pull up the drivers seat mat, and hand you all my emergency cash and say "give me this much worth." If you told me I would feel better if I ate steak I would say bye bye 25 years of cow free life and ask for a Wagu. If you told me I could be put into a medically induced coma and come out of this in eight weeks for just $50,000 I would call Morgan Stanley and cash out all my stock over to you. If I had been warned it was this bad I would have worked a lot harder, done a little OnlyFans if I had to, and earned the $100-150,000 needed to hire a better woman than me to take this burden on my behalf. 

I am pregnant and I have "morning sickness" which implies it ends. It doesn't end. If I am lucky by around 4pm I can stomach a short walk around the block. One week ago I was running four miles every morning. Now if I laugh at something I dry heave immediately afterwards. My happiness is gone. My hope is drained. I feel depressed, scared, sad, lonely, and miserable. My dad mansplaned I should feel better by now. Or just feel sick the first trimester which for the record is 13 weeks. We had to leave a vacation early when he had Lymes Disease and was sick for two days. I'm at six days. I should have explained to him then "it's just in your head, just a little tick bite. You should feel fine by now."

My mom gets angry whenever I express that this is anything less than a miracle. She gets mad when I express the miracle is I haven't just killed myself yet. That's the real miracle of birth. That any woman willingly went through this to end up with a kid that might be the next Ben Shapiro. If you could guarantee you're going to have a little Ruth Bader Ginsburg, sure maybe you can keep your eye on the prize for long enough. She'll be a bad ass icon for human rights. But to go through all this and risk having a Melania Trump I don't fucking think so.

But this kind of thought or talk is too much for my mom who can't eek out a bit of empathy for the personal hell scape I'm living in. The only way I think I could do pregnancy again is alone in a fancy Swiss day spa where I'm staring at mountains all day while a gorgeous blonde gives me an all day tap of intravenous fluids, an oxygen bar to get high off of, and a gentle rocking to sleep from my neighbor Totoro while Michael Buble sings in the background. And honestly even right now things that would normally please me like dogs and bunnies have the opposite effect. 

I want to be alone in a cave screaming through this like Bella's transition into a vampire and wait this storm out. I want to set my husband free from the burden of watching over me and sulk like Beowulf in my cave of pain. And once I emerge through this I want to raise my baby in the Aussie outback where we live a quiet life and speak to each other through facial expressions and eye flicks. We will watch kangaroos and I'll cry at the sunset. I'll never drink alcohol again and I'll never touch a man again for fear of making another baby I just can't mentally handle.

Ky will go off and marry some woman without the Guinness Book Records World's Most Shitty IBS Ulcer Ridden POS Stomach To Ever Exist and she'll bare him two babies and not be a wet blob of concrete that dried to the bed.

But I'm being dramatic. I've been sick for six days. Just 46 days to go. Admittedly that's a bit longer than Jesus was tempted in the desert so maybe by the end of this I'll be one of those pretentious moms who acts like the sun shines out her ass and the only meaningful thing she's ever done is made a life. Because if I make it through this gauntlet of unending pain, shit, giant tits, and wretched stomach without walking into the ocean I may just have ascended beyond woman and come out the other side as a real Karen.