Fybogel is my friend

Image source: Poor Man's Feast

I thought it was about time I started with the odd photo, but apologies to any pregnant ladies reading for whom a photo of some lovely thin, silky folds of salty, piggy Parma ham is currently an image of the devil.

It's been a couple of weeks since I last bothered blogging because I basically properly HAD IT with being pregnant.  If things went horribly wrong and I lost the funny little thing now, I can tell you what, my husband would have a pretty f*cking hard time convincing me to do it again.  There's been serious repulsion to odours, firstly to olive oil (olive oil?!) but since then mainly those involving cleaning products, so I've been able to wear any clothes I've washed in the last month and after my husband's beautified himself in the mornings I can't go near him for a good half an hour.  There's been repulsion to various foodstuffs - I've had to hide the box of ginger tea I bought when I first found out I was up the duff, having heard all things ginger kicked the 24-hour ass of morning sickness.  That's some beautiful irony for you right there.  In fact, on the whole I'm still not on very good terms with food: I rarely want to cook anything, but broadly speaking by the time the first mouthful's in it is quite welcome after all.  But milky things and fatty things are out, because they make me feel sick, and anything that's famed for its ability to generate even the tiniest puff of wind is also out because JESUS CHRIST am I toxic.  I am having brief addictions to things though, too - last week tinned tomatoes, dear god, I couldn't get enough of them; and this week I've mostly been existing on various combinations of gluten-free bread and lovely, lovely Parma ham.  And Fybogel, obviously.

Fybogel is my friend, my dearest, dearest friend, but it's become a friend I totally resent.  I had enough trouble with my bowels before pregnancy - a gluten-free diet = trouble getting enough fibre as it - but despite the vast amounts of water I'm drinking and the huge quantities of high-fibre bread and brown rice and gawd knows what else I'm stuffing in, my daily attempts at emptying myself remain an ongoing trauma, the details of which are far too intimate to reveal here.  Well, today they are.  I might be persuaded to share them tomorrow.

Woe is me

I've woken up today feeling like I am going to be sick everywhere.  Every single odour that's crossed my nose in the 51 minutes I've been awake thus far has made me want to vomit.  I only have a short commute to work (about half an hour of walking plus a ten minute train ride), however I have a strong suspicion I'm not going to make it there today without retching my guts up - hopefully in a bush, not on a fellow commuter.

I just feel absolutely terrible all of the bloody time.  I've even gone off my food - apart from the occasional 30 seconds where I'm suddenly so ravenous I think I'm going to die (or vomit).

What I'm basically trying to say, I think, is that so far, pregnancy gets the thumbs down.

So the torture begins...

D and I went out to our local Greek restaurant for dinner last night.  Talk about a foodie's worst nightmare: it was hard enough choosing things off the menu taking my gluten-freeness into consideration but now?  Now it seems like the choice has shrunk to almost nothing.  There's feta in everything, for starters, and when my lamb souvlaki turned up it was cooked to perfection, beautifully pink in the middle.  I had to swap it with D's dried up pork.

As my best friend pointed out in one of her amazingly supportive emails this week, you have to really like someone to want to swap your truly delicious plate of food with them.  I've potentially got another 8 months till I meet the bean and can work out if I like him or her enough to sacrifice a plate of lovely pink lamb.  If I wasn't as psychologically sound as I'm pleased so say I am, I'd start compiling a list immediately of all the shit the bean's going to owe me on his or her arrival.  So far: 6 boiled eggs and a lamb kebab.