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Pregnancy Hates Me

Posted Thursday, December 18, 2014 in: Nerd Life

Precautionary Warning: this is a WHINGING post, in the same vein as I Hate Camping and Green Smoothies Suck: Two Weeks Until Our Wedding. Also if the sight of a ruptured blood vessel - in my eyeball - would make you feel queasy, stop reading.

So I was not very far along in my pregnancy (you can read our announcement post here) when… man it still sounds so weird to say ‘my pregnancy’. Now I feel like giggling. Clearly I am extremely mature and totally ready for motherhood… another giggle-trigger word. Anyway, I was not very pregnant when I found out that pregnancy hates me. The reasons:


It is true that pregnancy super smelling powers are a real thing. Normally when people are like, “Nala smells, she needs a bath” I jump to her defence. Because I quite LIKE her doggy smell. She has this comforting kind of smell, sort of like corn chips, and corn chips always make me think of nachos.

Now, in bad pregnancy moments, getting a mere waft of Nala smell makes me vomit. If I am in my study and Nala is in the lounge room which is like three whole rooms away, I CAN SMELL HER. It’s not (just) her breath, it’s her skin. And she no longer smells good, like future nachos. She comes up to me and looks at me adoringly and I feel my stomach churn. “Please get away from me,” I cry tremulously. The poor fat thing walks around the house looking baffled. I feel so sad for her.

When I am at home alone working, Nala is my guard dog, and she takes her role seriously. She patrols the house, stares out the front window and growls at anyone and everyone walking past the house who could pose a threat to security including six-year-old girls riding tricycles with pink treamers on the handles. Lately Nala has developed a new annoying habit. About four times a day, she strolls over to my desk, squeezes her fat bulk underneath it, knocking aside my wastepaper bin, then walks around my legs and exits from under the desk, but not before fixing me with a grave, penetrating stare. “Perimeter check,” it is like she is saying. “Area secured, no intruders under desk. YOU ARE SAFE.” I know she means well, but now, being pregnant, catching that waft of her as she squeezes under my desk makes me run for the bathroom.

I have learned it makes no difference if she has just been washed. I can still smell that sickening dog smell. I am now washing her basically every two days, just because I cannot bear her doggy smell. Poor Nala. Showers are her second-least-favourite thing after going to the vet.

“You stink. You need a bath,” I choke out, my hand over my mouth, and Nala stops wagging her tail and looks at me sadly like, “Again?! But you JUST washed me. This is too much. I’m calling the RSPCA.”


Pregnancy brain is a real thing. I always thought it was an urban legend, something that pregnant women made up so they finally had a good excuse for forgetting to pay the electricity bill. Sometimes small things, like remembering the name of a blog, a café, a friend or even my own phone number, completely stump me.
“I don’t know what is wrong with me… I am stupider,” I weep to Mr Nerd.
“Well…. yes,” he says wryly but kindly. “Yes, you are.”

The other night, Pascal was trying to explain to friends about my pregnancy brain and how it’s made me slower. “Maya told me being pregnant feels like she’s running at 20 percent,” he said.
“No,” I said indignantly, “I said I’m running at 2/10.”
He looked at me silently.

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