I throw up alot. Multiple times a day. Morning. Afternoon. Night. Any time.
Usually it's a smell that hits me. Like chicken or fish or cologne or poop or basically any smell that is strong. Good or bad. My husband is forbidden from wearing cologne for the next four months because I just can't take it. I hugged a woman at church on Sunday and almost threw up down her back because the perfume smell was sickening.
If Chris wants a kiss, he knows the drill. He must scrinch up his lips really tight so not one bit of air or saliva can escape. He can lightly brush my lips but must never ever exhale when he is close to me so that I don't get a whiff of his breath and have to make a mad dash to the toilet.
I threw up at Kroger outside the pop can return area. I threw up at Meijer at the Lobster tank. I threw up while driving the car, inside a bag. After, I hoped the bag just had some trash or something unimportant in it. It had Calvin's scriptures in it. He got new ones for Christmas.
I was going to throw up yesterday and Cameron could tell the signs. "Hurry, Mom," he says, "put a wipe under your nose. And use this cup." As I threw up in the cup, he ran and got me a can of coke, which settles my stomach. Lizzie rubbed my arm and said, "It's ok, Mama. It's ok." Emily laughs at how I can lean over the sink one minute, throw up and then turn and finish making dinner. But sometimes I just can't finish it. And then Chris is wonderful and brings home pizza.
I'm going to be 24 weeks on Friday and I wish, wish, wish that this throwing up would end. But I have a feeling that it's going to be with me all the way to May 5.
In our Father's Hands
2 hours ago