Wishful gagging

Not, you understand, that I wish to gag. I don’t. I hate yeching more than I hate almost anything in the world.

But I am certainly wishing that all of the physical gagging I’ve been doing for the last 24 hours means something’s stirring in there, and not simply that I have an overactive gag reflex (and/or imagination). But given that the smell currently setting me off is a dog treat made from the dried, er, penis of a bull, it could simply stink to high heaven, no added hormonal enhancement needed for maximum non-enjoyment. God knows the dog is having the time of her life. This was a reward for not wreaking devastation between the time the boy left for the afternoon and I arrived home from work. Nellie is a good dog. She gets nasty treats as a reward, but she won’t be licking my face anytime soon.

And even if I am reacting to some neato hormonal cocktail making me more sensitive to odors, it doesn’t seem to causing any sort of food aversions. More’s the pity. Dinner consisted of some of those excellent olives stuffed with garlic, squash soup, really ripe cheddar cheese, and a hunk of olive bread. And ice cream. I didn’t even make it as far as the take-out menus before giving into my olive-craving, and you’d think that brine-soaked, allium-stuffed olives would set off a gag if anything would, but no – I can’t get enough of ’em.

On the other hand, (or on my chest, rather), my boobs are doing the amazing-swollenness/tenderness thing that they did my first pregnancy and not my second. I’m inclined to count that as a pretty damned good sign. A painful sign, but a good one nevertheless. Until you hear otherwise (say, 9am tomorrow) I’m feeling optimistic about the whole thing.

Only 6 days til I can test.

Ack.

Advertisements