Sunlight on oxalis, redwood forest, November 2012

Thanksgiving dinner tasted great. But after the extended family’s annual walk up to the park/football game (greatly anticipated by my football-obsessed older child this year), we sat down to eat dessert and I couldn’t eat it. I could not eat dessert. You got that, right? Because it is a highly unusual occurrence in these parts.

Immediately I remembered last Thanksgiving, and the epic 24 hours of puking that followed as a horrendous stomach virus (not food poisoning) took down four of the six people in my house. Then I shook my head. No way we could have that bad of luck two years in a row.

And we didn’t. But I got a stomach virus and then a respiratory virus and, after two weeks of illness, went to the doctor who told me go to bed and stay there. Sometimes you need someone with authority to tell you it’s okay to step away from the workings of the family as much as possible, use your precious childcare hours to sleep, and watch too many Downton Abbey reruns on your laptop.

I’m finally feeling better, and I’m so thankful for that.

I’m thankful I’m not pregnant. Feeling that familiar, trapped-on-a-boat nausea feeling for two weeks reminded me of all those weeks I spent holed up in bed as much as possible, watching Sex and the City reruns and trying not to throw up, when I was pregnant and suffering all-day sickness. Otherwise known as morning sickness. Even though I’ve never met anyone with bad morning sickness who only had it in the morning.

Then I was reading about Duchess Kate’s hyperemesis gravis. She might be a princess, but I feel sorry for the poor girl. To have the whole world knowing that you can’t stop throwing up – what a way to announce a first pregnancy. It really brought me back mentally to being pregnant, a state I wish I bore with elegance but just really didn’t.

I’m sure the non-stop nausea and lack of energy are a huge part of why, when I’ve been pregnant, I know I’m happy to be having a baby, but I feel disconnected from it. When I’ve been pregnant, I’ve wanted to feel the magic of it – after all, growing a human being inside oneself is truly remarkable! – but mostly it’s been a countdown to feeling okay again. By my third pregnancy, I decided that early pregnancy hormones must have a depressive effect on me. I even asked the therapist I was seeing after my miscarriage, when I was pregnant with Emry, whether pregnancy hormones are known to cause depression. She didn’t know anything about it. Nor did the Internet. I only found stuff on postpartum depression. After I gave birth to Emry, I had postpartum elation: Look at me! I can move again!

Did I mention that I’m thankful I’m not pregnant right now?

I’m thankful I’ve been pregnant, and that I have two healthy, thriving, growing, ball-obsessed, crazy boys to show for it. I know enough people who are struggling with pregnancy right now that it makes me even more grateful for these guys. The intensity of the miracle that is pregnancy might have been difficult for me to enjoy while I was actually pregnant, but every night, once they’re finally asleep, the thrills and trials of the day behind us, I still marvel at how they’re here, these two children, mine.