There is an incredible truth that baffles professionals. It is the reality of how a woman in her first trimester can relate in every way to a Zombie. She wakes up and the taste in her mouth from last night’s dinner propels her to the toilet for a morning outpour of leftovers. Once she feels the sweet emerging relief, she drops again to face the odious throne. It is difficult to maintain any resemblance to a female creature when all energy flees like a bandit from the crime scene. Behind her she drags her slippers as she makes her way into the kitchen and smells the neighbor’s breakfast. They’re having eggs with sausage and the taste of sausage lingers on her tongue and she flips to her side to drain whatever food remains into the sink.
The day continues and she manages to keep the sprite and soda crackers steady within her except the weight of her head seems too much for her to carry. At work a sitting area with a large couch calls her to rest her feet and lower her heavy head. She sits for a moment, until she opens her eyes to find her boss staring at her. He expresses his concern for her health and she thanks him stating its one of those crazy days. She rushes to the nearest fast food place crossing sideways through traffic to make her turn and arrive at a place she doesn’t frequent but a force within her drives her to it. She eats like a starving child the dripping pickle with chocolate ice cream while she cries at her disgusting self. Feeling ashamed at the events of her day she walks to the parking lot spitting left and right like a camel, feeling every second a lesser woman. She reaches her car door when the sudden rise of pickles volcanoes out of her body to the unsuspecting bush nearby. She rests her body on her couch finally at home, where her husband finds her. One of her legs rests on the arm rest, the other did not make it to the couch, her head hands low on the edge of the right side cushion and from the moss of hair he hears her weeping. She mutters about her day, her exhaustion, her need to use the bathroom every minute , her constant thirst and worst of all she feels all these at once. He brings her water and she cries mentioning her talent for water recycling.
Author’s Note: The funniest part is that mothers will do it all over again for the love of another child. I would. What was it like for you? Or is there something that was difficult that you would do all over again?