Should you ever find yourself in a situation where you’re overtaken with horrendous “morning” sickness and you have a holiday booked, my advice is to cancel the trip and go and lie on the sofa instead.
Do listen to me: I’ve suffered so you don’t have to.
We had a trip to Israel coming up that had been booked for months. We discussed cancelling, but I felt bad for S. He was looking forward to going and he’d been working hard looking after me. So I said: “Let’s go.”
Here are the headlines of the trip.
The Mamilla in Jerusalem is a great hotel to throw up in. We didn’t stay there, but I made use of the facilities during a disastrous tour of the city, most of which I spent with my head in my hands of the back of a taxi. The Market House in Tel Aviv, where we did actually stay, has a marvellously large downstairs toilet in which to vomit.
The café by the clock in Jaffa, the name of which escapes me, also has a barf-friendly toilet; the owner of the café was so rude that I don’t regret unloading in his establishment.
And so my Vom Tour of the Holy Land continued for a whole miserable week.
We were relieved to come home.
The end of month three was so much chirpier, marked by the 12-week scan – the first big milestone. After a happy confirmation that all was OK with bubsy, S and I could finally reveal why I’d been so sick and miserable for the past few months.
I absolutely loved calling my friends and family to tell them the news; the reaction was joyous and overwhelming. A few detective types had already worked out what was going on. As one friend said, “You haven’t left the house for two months.” But even this smart alecry was meant with love, with people being genuinely delighted at the news.
I only hope those people will also be delighted to babysit after the baby is born when I need to get to the gym.