Let's just get this out of the way: I despise the word preggo. I'm carrying a child. A life. I am not a jar of pasta sauce.
May 13th - the first day since February that I have felt good. Mark this down, because I actually wondered if I'd ever live to see the day.
No worries, it was a false alarm and I haven't felt anywhere close to that good since. This kid in here? Has mastered the prenatal shenanigans. I think that means I'm owed a lifetime of cuteness and sweet as pie-ness.
You guys. I am like reaching full-blown psycho level. This laying in bed, the heaving, the inexplicable excuse for enough boobage for 18 people. I can feeeeel my brain cell population depleting. My exciting nights have become showers, Dancing with the Stars (obsessed! Don't know where I have been for the last umpteen seasons), and ordering pretty fabric for my borderline-hoarder stash of fabric. Just in case I ever decide to start sewing again.
Yesterday I flew into a mini hormonal rage and decided some smaller, fitter, unpregnant person that would actually wear my clothing should have them. A goodwill trip is in my future.
My house is in a sad state of affairs. Several weeks ago, Jimmy wore a proud grin and told me that he had dusted everything. Bless his heart. I didn't have the heart to tell him he should have already done that 13 times at this point.
But seriously. I'm turning him into an amazing house wife. The other day - the day I felt good (are you realizing how depressing that sounds? THE DAY. THE ONE.) I went with my friend Erin to see a movie. As I left, Jimmy and the girls were baking cupcakes. First you should know, Jimmy has just recently started baking. Second, this recipe they used called for self-rising flour, so he decided to make his own.
I get home, and the bumblebee cupcakes were swayback bumblebees. Looked like they placed golfballs on the tops as they were fresh out of the oven.
So, he isn't a master baker yet. But he is really good at bedtime routines, and keeping the house in some semblance of an order. And I really am thankful. It appears as if Eisley does really messy things only when Jimmy is out of the house. Like that time she decided to do a paraffin dip in my tartlet warmer.
Me? Well, I'll count growing a human as a talent. And also, eating in bed. Laying down. And I must get the award for the most random and disturbing stream of thoughts at 3 am. I'm also really good at rootbeer floats, gaining weight while throwing up, and pregnancy brain. Practically a professional, actually.
the good day.
163 days in case the rest of you are as desperate for the finish line as I am.
(and in the interest of full disclosure: I know the rewards are far greater than the complaints. I am blessed to carry life again. As a sweet (and hilarious) friend of mine told me: "when you can't wine, wine, wine, then whine is the next best thing." I'm getting really good at it.