When I envisioned being pregnant, I thought of myself writing more. Notes to the baby, prayers for our family, personal musings in my old journal—I imagined being contemplative and whimsical about the future.

“Are you OK?” My husband asked, as I spewed vomit all over his feet, the couch, and the carpet. We had been watching a hilarious SNL sketch, where Bowen Yang dresses up like a sassy daddy long leg, when my laughter had suddenly turned into an uncontrollable gush of acidic sickness. Both Ryan (who hates throw up) and our dog Walter (who doesn't really mind throw up) looked at me with wide horrified eyes as I nodded my head and ran to the bathroom to finish emptying my stomach.

All this to say, my version of pregnancy was much more humbling than my ~vision.~

Notes from journal: July 27, 2021

“Pregnant with a boy! I’m 13 weeks today and have been meaning to write about it for the last six weeks but, oh. You, dear future sir, have not made it all that easy. I have felt sleepy and sick for about a month now. I’ve probably thrown up 10-12 times, and truly feel lucky to be spending most of the first trimester working from home (pandemic continues).

I knew I’d be sick; my sister was nauseous for months, so it seemed inevitable. I did NOT know I’d be throw-up-all-your-lunch-sick for nearly half a year. And medically speaking, I've had a relatively easy and healthy pregnancy. How do teachers or doctors or train conductors do it? I found myself constantly assessing jobs and the vomit strategy that would accompany each position as I stuck my head in random trash cans and bushes around New York City.

Notes from journal: October 18, 2021

Screw this plane with no working outlets. Screw COVID and the mask on my face. Screw no wine. Nothing much is going right today. Also being preggo is mostly awful and I’m still, at almost the third trimester, vomiting weekly! I would like a drink. I would like the girl next to me on the plane to turn off the volume on her phone. What sort of psychopath leaves the clicking sound on for typing out a text at full volume on a plane? WHO DOES THIS? DO YOU LIKE TORTURE?

Ah, such sweet poems of pregnancy I scribbled in my journal. Beautiful moments of patience and kindness danced through my mind... I was so contemplative. So whimsical.

The truth is, I do not like pregnancy.

And there doesn’t need to be any apology with this statement—no “but I know it’s so worth it” or “but I’m still so excited” needed. Sure, these things are true. But when I have my head in the toilet for the fourth month in a row, and I have stretch marks screaming up my sides, and I can’t sleep because apparently pregnant people get restless leg syndrome and lots of heartburn when horizontal... just let me say, “I do not like pregnancy.” Full stop. The end. Fini!

Notes from journal: December 19, 2021

33 weeks pregnant and some change... I haven’t thrown up in a month. Doing much better. I can feel you move a lot. That part is mostly quite fun. It makes everything feel more real and less like I’ve just had an endless stomach bug.

Despite all my grievances you’ve read here, I’m honored to join the ranks of the people who’ve come before me in the ancient act of giving birth. It’s not a process everyone wants to experience—and I fully support those who do not (see all of the above). It’s also not a process everyone is able to experience—even though it’s their desire. This is a type of complicated heartbreak I can’t fully relate to but understand can be its own deeply dark experience.

And of course, there’s a tiny voice in my head, whispering venomous reminders about what could go wrong. It’s not a completely invalid anxiety: Giving birth is hard. Things happen. And, most unfortunately, between the COVID peaks in NYC (this could be its own blog post) and the general chaos of safely birthing a human, there are ceaseless reminders that I have little to no control over something I’d very much like to plan in great detail.

These nerves and moments of gratefulness compel me to document some of the positives. Yes, even me—a salty, sick, and sleepy whale of a pregnant person—will admit there were some enjoyable moments on this journey.

I think about how we surprised each of our families with the news last summer. We’d had a miscarriage the previous year, so Ryan and I had been hesitant to celebrate for much for the first trimester. But once the secret was out to our immediate families, it felt as though we could allow ourselves to be excited.

I think about the first time Ryan really felt him moving while we were driving in Queens. He had one hand on my stomach and the other on the wheel. Then, “boom!” There was an undeniable kick. Ryan was startled, he and looked at me with wonder and joy. I will always remember his expression.

I think about our second ultrasound at the hospital’s imagery center. The nurse was poking and prodding my stomach, trying to “get him to move his hand away from his face!” She whapped my belly with the scanner and clicked a few buttons. Several minutes later, the computer started to flash a bunch of images in rapid succession. After a pause, it shot out one sepia-toned picture.

There was Bae Bae Nugent! His hand still partially covered his face, but the image was unmistakably a 3D rendering of a baby, with a nose, eyes, and a pouty little mouth. Ryan and I both looked at the screen, slightly shocked. “Oh my God, Ryan you’re in my stomach,” I laughed. “You think he looks like me?” he said, eying the image again. I was now howling. “YES! His nose! Your face is in my stomach.” I couldn’t stop laughing for the rest of the appointment.

I assume pregnancy is a fabulous precursor to parenting, in that the vision is rarely the reality. So, my goal for the next several months is not to write more, or deeply process all of life’s complexities.

No, instead I’m going to try to get some sleep, if even just a few hours a night. I’m going to rely on friends and family for advice. When frustrated, I’m going to remember—like vomit-inducing pregnancy—this is a season of life with aggressive highs and lows. I’m going to whine, cry, laugh, sing, and basically do what it takes to get through 24-hour chunks of life at a time.

So for now, I think “the plan” is simply to plunge into the mysterious future and let our only ambition be to love unselfishly—fully knowing there will be moments of both anguish and joy as we let a little piece of ourselves enter a strange yet enchanting world.