I am not a vomiter; I am not a sickly person; I am not a person prone to fatigue. So I had always assumed, naively perhaps, that this fairly robust constitution would carry through to any bearing of children I may do.

Sure enough, as I cruised past week seven of pregnancy, I smugly told my sister I thought morning sickness may have passed me by.

"I feel fine, no symptoms at all," I preened. She looked dubious and warned me that both she and my mother began their pukey periods at around eight weeks. I shrugged her off as a pessimist.
Two weeks later, on the daily 50-minute train commute to work, I found myself in a cold sweat, desperate for the train to stop so I could jump off at the next station and sprint to the nearest ladies room. For the fourth time that week. Hanging grimly onto the railing, I swallowed back bile and looked ahead with dismay to the day at work.

Out of nowhere, I had begun to pale at the sight and smell of my colleagues; lunches - open plan office, open-plan kitchen: wonderful for making a workplace feel inclusive and friendly, living hell for a pregnant person who can only stand stodgy, odourless food.

People who wore perfume or dared chew minty gum were suddenly the object of my utmost wrath: so much so, I began conducting interviews with clients over the phone as much as possible, because any time I met a new person, I cringed with fear over what perfume, shower gel or body lotion they might be wearing, or if they had popped in a Wrigleys at any time that day.

People reassured me the living hell I was enduring was a Good Thing. That it meant all was ticking along nicely, baby-wise, and, after all, it would only last a few weeks.
A few WEEKS? I seriously started to wonder what on earth I had gotten myself into.

As if the sickness wasn't enough - and, frankly, it was - I started, at around 2pm daily, to feel like I had been shot in the head with a tranquiliser dart. The eyelids would droop, the brainpower would melt away, the reflexes would get slower - and the struggle to stay upright and try to at least look reasonably alert until I got home at 6pm would begin.

Which brings me to my home life: my partner was suddenly dealing with a nauseous, sleepy, bewildered person where his girlfriend used to be. Once a raging carnivore, I also balked at the sight and smell of meat, meaning I locked myself away if he cooked steak or chicken, only emerging again when he had cleaned every last trace of meat-smell away.

I still don't know why we are put through this. Of course, some women have it much worse than I did, and some breeze through pregnancy, and will wonder what on earth I am whingeing about. It just reaffirmed my belief that the whole pregnancy "deal" was, without question, designed by a man. And, of course, my belief that my sister can be insufferably smug when she is proved right.

Sharon Thompson is a freelance writer and proofreader after working as a journalist for eight years. She works with clients to prepare press releases, marketing copy, articles, opinion pieces, blogs, newsletter copy, and more - whatever words her clients require. She also has an eagle eye and can proofread finished documents. She has a passion for words and is a voracious reader. S.T. Writing Services charges reasonable, competitive rates and offers an extremely fast turnaround time. Contact Sharon by email on This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it , call 0402 809 099 or visit www.stwritingservices.net.au

Read Sharon's previous blogs:
Third test is a charm