life at our house is a series of mundane activities that everybody moves through like automatons. and it’s more or less all my fault.

i am completely lifeless. i have been prescribed an antiemetic and an anti-nausea prenatal vitamin. i voluntarily went on the BRATT diet after staying home from work two days ago with a fever and the punies. last night i ate white rice and toast for dinner, and promptly threw it up. i’ve lost four pounds this week.

i don’t laugh at anything. i struggle to smile around m, even when she is giggling or sitting in my lap laughing. i can barely touch the dogs. i don’t find s’s jokes even remotely amusing (and sometimes they’re not, but i almost always laugh, at the very least, at his effort.)  i expend most of my energy trying not to vomit. what i have left, i spend trying not to pass out.

i’ve had morning sickness in each pregnancy that lasted longer than the first trimester, and it’s always been bad. it starts in the morning and gets progressively worse during the day. but i threw up only once with each of the girls, and each time it was very late in the first trimester; with ruby, it was in the second. i did not expect this, this time around. and i don’t know how to deal with it.

s is afraid it means we’re having twins. i’m afraid it’s going to kill me, or break us up, or destroy what little is left of my sanity. by the end of every day i have no idea how i’ll possibly make it through another 24 hours, let alone eight more weeks. even one day at a time seems completely unmanageable.

in my more dramatic moments i have thought it a good thing that we don’t keep guns in the house. in my less dramatic moments i hope to be medically diagnosed with dehydration so at least i can be hospitalized and s won’t be required to care for me while trying to feed and clothe and bathe and walk and play with the rest of the family.

but in my more sane moments i realize that this is it. i can’t possibly do this again. i am too old, too worn out, too emotionally wasted. a friend last fall told me she marveled at my ability to look despair in the face and say “fuck you.” these last few weeks, though, i’ve realized i don’t have that kind of fight left in me. despair, weariness, exhaustion: they have won. this is our last pregnancy. our last hurrah. our last stand. and i can barely begin to contemplate what that might mean.