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Nine
Harper
“Ugh,” I groan, resting my forehead on the toilet seat and waiting for my stomach to settle.
Morning sickness.
They fucking lie.
It’s morning sickness and mid-morning sickness, lunchtime sickness and early-afternoon sickness. It’s dinner sickness and going-to-bed sickness and once on a truly awful night three days ago, it was wake me at a godawful hour of the night to have me running through my bedroom and gagging into the toilet.
A-fucking-gain.
This is going to end, right?
Because I’m only a week into knowing about this baby and I want to curl up in the corner and cry.
The nausea wells up, and I retch again, tears streaming down my cheeks, my bladder doing its level best to turn itself inside out while I attempt to not pee myself.
I succeed—but it’s a close thing.
Standing when it feels like I’m finally empty, I make a pitstop at the sink to rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth.
With my puke delay, I need to kick it into gear.
But it’s better than me watching the clock like I’d been before this baby sent me scurrying to the bathroom, worrying my way into premature frown lines.
Worrying about the decision I’d made.
Worrying that something might be wrong.
Worrying that I did something wrong and this baby I’m already in love with might be?—
I gag again, christen the porcelain goddess even though there is absolutely nothing left for my body to expel.
Then I repeat the whole rinsing and brushing routine.
“Okay,” I say to my reflection. “Enough for a few minutes, yeah?”
My reflection doesn’t reply, just stares back at me, pale and a little sweaty.
And I sigh, know that’s as good as it’s going to get.
I grab my things, making sure to snag my planner with its list of questions, and drive over to the clinic, arriving a little breathless and only ten minutes early.
My mom would be so disappointed.
On time is fifteen minutes early, baby girl.
The raw edges of the wound in my heart throb.
Maybe I won’t take it to that extreme, but hopefully I’ll teach my kid to be punctual, to respect other people’s time.
I finish with the paperwork, hold the clipboard close, and try to calm my racing heart.
But as my appointment time ticks closer, my pulse doesn’t settle. Questions are swirling through my head and my mouth is dry and my stomach is queasy.
