Five weeks and counting....

I need a break from this whole pregnancy thing.

Just one day or even half a day to run wild, drinking a glass of wine and taking a Tylenol without doing the complex calculus of how badly this is going to screw up the other life I'm now responsible for.

I'm sure every woman who has been pregnant has felt the same way at some time, either in the beginning or more toward the end, when you are as big as a house and have been dealing with not really owning your own body for eight or nine months. The surreal feeling of making all your decisions based on some other life inside you is very strange, indeed. Especially when you've spent your entire adult life with a complete disregard for your own health and well-being.

This week is the perfect example. Tuesday morning, everything was humming along beautifully when I was felled by a migraine. I've been getting migraines for almost 10 years now, and I never know when or why they will hit. I've always envied people who knew exactly what triggered their headaches. (I have a girlfriend who has it down to a science - no mushrooms, cranberries or sharp cheddar cheese. No joke.) I have no idea. It could be the weather patterns in Peru, for all I know.

Tuesday morning, I had oatmeal and a glass of milk, the same breakfast I've had every day for two weeks now. An hour later, I was sent reeling into a dark room, clutching my head and knowing there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. No prescription migraine medication is safe for pregnancy and Tylenol, the one thing I CAN take, doesn't even touch that kind of pain. I might as well swallow a handful of Tic Tacs. So, I slunk off to the TV room and consoled myself with lukewarm water and reruns of Law and Order. (And not even Criminal Intent. The infinitely lamer SVU.)

Tony did a nice job taking care of me, given our limited resources. My lunch choices were baked beans and yogurt (I chose yogurt) and for dinner, he got be Taco Bell. (PS, the new Loaded Nachos are to DIE FOR! Guac, two kinds of cheese and pico de gallo. Super awesome good. But I digress.) I went to bed that night convinced I'd wake up the Wednesday a new woman.

Instead, I woke up in more pain than the day before. Have you ever tried getting up for your pregnancy bladder break at three in the morning when you feel like your head is going to explode? I couldn't even turn on the light in the bathroom, so I was convinced the whole time that snakes were going to come out of the toilet and grab my butt. (I'm not kidding, this is why I have to turn the light on every time I get up during the night. Overwhelming fear of toilet snakes.)

So, I spent yesterday glued to the couch again, watching Top Chef reruns. (At least it was restaurant wars, so that was fun. But it made me hungry.) We had fish sticks for lunch - Tony cooked! I pretended each fish stick was an amuse-bouche.

Today, I'm back to myself, mostly. There is always lingering pain after an episode like that, but I'm well enough to get back to work. But the whole episode drove home for me just how little control I have over my body now and for the next seven months. Or actually, how much more control I have to exercise than usual. I've always been pretty loose and free with the booze, the ibuprofen and the raw foods. No more. I've had to give up over-easy eggs, the good sushi, Advil, beer, unpasteurized cheese, all of that. I'm actually not sure what I've been eating the last month, given those restrictions.

Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled about being pregnant. Tony and I tried for months to get this way, so it is a little disingenuous for me to complain now. But like any blessing, this has some consequences wrapped up in it. Like me not being able to eat a Spicy Tuna Roll or wash down a great medium-rare steak with a beautiful glass of Shiraz.

Oh, great. Now I'm hungry. Way to go, Lacy.