AS SEEN ON FLAMINGO PINK!
I’m 25 and pregnant. It is my first pregnancy so everything is coming as a bit of a surprise. Especially the spewing…
At six months pregnant, I was extremely upset to find myself feeling nauseous one afternoon. I had had horrific morning sickness for the first 14 weeks that made a night with Tequila and Moonshine look like a walk in the park. Then, at 15 weeks, I woke up and was finally able to look a banana in the eye. But then at 24 weeks, nausea rushed over my body again. I internally sobbed that my hormones were back. And then the spewing began.
The first vomit session began with the brown rice I had just eaten. The second session produced a carton of strawberries. The third, fourth and fifth times made my oatmeal, pear and apple reappear.
After I made sure I hadn’t puked up my baby and/or spleen, I called my husband’s office to see if they could get him to call me. Now, I’m sure this sounds simple, but it’s not. Paul works some 15 kilometers underground in a coal mine. Impressively, he made contact with me in only twenty minutes. By this point, I was lying in the floor crying hysterically and needing my mommy who LIVES IN FLORIDA. Paul said he was coming right home. An hour later, he had made the trip from underground lemming to surface husband. We got in the car and went straight to the hospital. I wouldn’t normally make a big deal about being sick, but when you have a human swimming inside of you, you just don’t know!
The midwives and doctor in the maternity ward were very sweet and very calming. I explained in detail that I either had:
• Worms from my dogs
• An allergic reaction to thrush medication
• Food Poisoning
• Listeria infection
• Swine Flu
They handed me an electrolyte-soaked ice block and assured me it was probably just a tummy bug. They checked baby (all good), gave me some anti-nausea meds and sent me home to load up on fluids.
When we got to our house, I wanted nothing more than to sit on my Big Mama chair. This chair is a two- (and sometimes three-) seater daybed that would be perfect for giving birth or watching a Geordie Shore marathon. About thirty minutes later, my stomach grumbled and I felt the build up of a truly tremendous fart. I excitedly said, “Paul! I’m going to fart!”
Nope. I did not fart.
My sphincter surrendered and everything evil literally POURED out of my anus. I clumsily waddled off the Big Mama chair screaming “IT’S POO. IT’S LEAKING. IT’S POO. IT’S LEAKING” across the living room floor, into the bathroom and onto the toilet. I left a trail of watery feces the whole way. Paul immediately followed with a grocery bag to get my socks, undies and Spandex. (HOW IT RAN DOWN MY LEGS WITH SPANDEX ON IS BEYOND ME.)
Paul was gagging profusely as I smiled and laughed hysterically. I knew he really loved me when he agreed to look at the design my poo made in the toilet. Needless to say, the blanket, my clothes and our romance all went to the cleaners. After I had showered, I walked back into the living room where Paul was mopping the floor and in a voice similar to Mischa Barton’s in The Sixth Sense, I told him “I’m feeling much better now.”