Damned Salad Got Me Again

Frida has moved from wondering about a new baby brother to asking for a puppy, so it’s probably just fine that I’m not pregnant after all. After a brief but intense period of disappointment, I am flooded with thoughts of things in the next few months that will be easier to do without morning sickness/hormonal rages/exhaustion. These items include:

  • getting the kids used to life without the wonderful au pair, whose contract is finished in mid-September
  • getting myself and our laundry used to life without said au pair
  • adapting to a new culture, language, climate, etc. in Milan
  • saying goodbye to our friends in Hamburg
  • finding new doctors, groceries, bike paths, pharmacists, therapists, playgrounds, playdates, train routes, bus stops, markets, hidden parking spaces, and all the other pieces of knowledge that are crucial to the daily logistics of a metropolitan family of four
  • nurturing my marriage, career, family, home, friendships and self
  • drinking a shitload of Italian wine
  • jumping, apparently, because I was specifically warned against it during the most recent embryo transfer. ‘Remember, Frau Rosenbaum, no saunas, no raw meats or vegetables, and NO JUMPING!’ ‘Got it. I’ll keep cool, cook all my food, and do the opposite of jumping.’ And then I lay down on the floor and gently, ever so gently, rolled myself home lest a too-harsh footfall jostle the little embryos loose.

Probably I’m not pregnant because of that raw carrot I ate last week.


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