Three Into Four: Sick And Tired (And Definitely Not Glowing)

It wasn't a one-off, you see. Pregzilla - the term of endearment (abuse?) my husband came up with when my hideous alter-ego first reared her spotty, aching head in pregnancy number one, and which he charmingly continued to call me until Diana was about 10 months old - has returned.

Since the unfortunate car incident, I've been throwing up (or dry heaving) an average of once a week, and spending many hours feeling dizzy, light-headed and blinded by migraines in between.

Things that are supposed to help, like eating, seem to work momentarily and then I feel as if I need to consume a full meal again to curb the nausea, which I sometimes do, only to find that my tummy is screaming in pain from being so over-stuffed (with the added downside that even maternity clothes from pregnancy number one are already starting to feel a bit snug).

There's also the exhaustion, which creeps up on me and knocks me out so completely that I sometimes have no memory of the night before and basically feel hungover, minus the fun part where I actually got to drink anything. I haven't touched a drop of alcohol in months, which may help partially explain why I'm flying off the handle at everyone (translation: my husband).

I'm not really sure what's going on - other than my theory that some people are 'good' at being pregnant and I'm, sadly, not - but the other day, when I was at my lowest point, something kind of amazing happened.

It was 7:30am, I was hunched over the toilet, tears streaming down my face, when Diana ran into the bathroom behind me (she likes to be involved in the action at all times).

'Mummy, mummy, MUMMY!?' she started repeating, understandably worried because I was in a crumpled heap on the floor, my face hidden inside the toilet bowl.

I could barely speak so didn't really answer her, but all of a sudden, unprompted, she put her hand on my shoulder and pulled my hair back for me, held it and patted my head. Then she planted a kiss on my cheek, took my hand and squeezed it until the nausea passed and I was able to get up again.

Wow.

Now, compassionate isn't exactly the first (or 15th) word I'd use to describe my daughter (or any two-year-old, for that matter), but Diana's simple, loving act of kindness completely floored me (and makes me feel like even though I might be a terrible pregnant person, I am actually doing something right as a mother!)

Who knew one of the best moments of my parenting life so far would result from such unpleasant circumstances?

While an adorable, loving, two-year-old isn't exactly a cure for morning sickness, thinking of D holding and comforting me that morning has lifted my nausea-addled spirits and put a smile on my face every time I've thought about it. If only I'd had Diana to get me through all those tough times in pregnancy number one.