Dear Isaiah,
So apparently, you LOVE yoga. Perhaps you would have loved it even more if your mother wasn’t such a bluthering baffoon sometimes.
Since our yoga class didn’t start until 6:30pm and I made arrangements with my belly to eat a nice healthy lunch and snack the rest of the day and then eat a somewhat late dinner circa 8pm.
Apparently 1.5 hours of stretching, downward dogs, and holding odd poses can zap all the calories left that you decided to leave behind. So, you were as happy as a leaping frog and my body crunched its way through yoga, using the last of the 4:30pm banana and peanut butter snack I inhaled.
By 8:40pm, I walked into the living room, greeted by your father ready to pounce on me for cutting it so close to the season premier of Grey’s Anatomy, the only acceptable trash prime time show on TV I will expose you to which started at 9pm.
It was then that I felt a prickly sensation at the top of my belly, the roof of your home, the oven.
I figured my body was responding to my out of routine eating habits and so I gobbled down a black bean burger on a small bagel with some naked spinach thrown in there. It was a delish, globby mess.
By the second round of commercials of the two hour opener, you were a full-fledged boxer, taking on your vision of a miniature Oscar de La Hoya, I’m sure. Between that and the ring of fire that was spreading over the insides of my belly, I started worrying something was wrong. Two hours later, I could bare stand up or exert any effort because it agitated this burning sensation. Getting up the stairs to bed took forever and I could barely enjoy the newly finished bathroom that I had landed me a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records in the “HOW MUCH CAN ONE PERSON COMPLAIN ABOUT ONE THING FOR 16 DAYS STRAIGHT?” category.
My dear boy, I broke a rule that I swore I never would: I googled pregnancy symptoms. By the end of 10 minutes, I was convinced I was dying of a ruptured absess in my intestines or I was in premature labor (never mind I didn’t have contractions).
I sat up in bed because it was too hard to lie down and you fought your way to a comfortable spot inside for a long time. I kept apologizing that I didn’t do a better job of whatever caused this and even your dad, furrowed his brows at my incessant whimpering. Eventually, in the wee hours of the night, I fell asleep on 8272 pillows that propped me up.
This morning, my stomach was sore and you were quiet which freaked me out so much I placed a call to the doctor. I cursed Cleveland Clinic for being so complicated. I was patched into different departments until I got Nurse Nancy, who works with our doctor, Dr. McElroy. After what seemed like eons, I explained the ring of fire feeling, what I ate that day, (“Do I have food poisoning?”), and prenatal yoga poses that I held.
Her assessment, “Is it above the belly bump?”
Yes.
“Is the pain below your chest?”
Yes.
“Is the baby still moving?”
Like a ferocious upset animal.
“Well, that’s good.”
What’s the problem? Do I need to come in?
“Nope, just take some Tums.”
TUMS?
“Sounds like acid reflux.”
“What’s that?”
She sounds incredulous,”You’ve never had acid reflux?”
No, does that hurt the baby?
“No, you probably had an empty stomach and there was nothing to soak up the acid so it burns like that for a long time.”
Oh, so it’s common to feel like I’m about to die and that can be acid reflux?
“Sure. Take some Tums and call me at 4pm if it doesn’t get any better.”
Hang up.
So now I feel like an idiot. And overreactive. And naive of acid reflux. And lucky that I never had acid reflux. And dumb when my co-worker heard that I have acid problems and promptly handed me a roll of Tums. I promptly popped 4 in my mouth.
They taste like Pez candy.
So, my renewed promise to you, my son, is to never again let so many hours go by without some nutrition because apparently that can lead to death-like experiences when pregnant.
Your mom has learned her lesson.
I hope you enjoyed the variety of today’s eating selection.
Love,
Mom