Stosh, ever courteous, is determined to make this pregnancy the most miserable, horrible, all-around godawful nine months of my liiiiife, in order to prevent me from being sad and pining for another pregnancy when we are, in fact, DONE, upon his arrival (as I am absolutely the type to ignore the fact that pregnancies result in babies- who often don't sleep, in our case, who ultimately become children, and find myself longing for just one more chance.) He has fully ensured THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN. I am not glowing or blissful or any of that crap. I am a hot mess. My hair continues to fall out and my skin is breaking out and I have restless legs and insomnia and horrible nightmares and reflux-y heartburn and STILL, good CHRIST, with the nausea, and I can barely sit without getting winded, much less run, the ONE THING that often clears my mind and makes me feel human, and I cannot seem to stop eating in spite of the aforementioned troublesome symptoms and you know....yeah. Whine whine whine. I KNOW, OKAY? I know.
Wanna see how enormous I am this time? because I am entirely enormous.
|Stosh: he is big. please God, let him be big....|
|Gracie: she was reasonably big...ok...|
|Katie: oh my hell, look at THAT. ...though she was admittedly petite...|
Whatever, I have to take it where I can find it. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to writhe around in bed and complain about how horrible I feel and how I can't sleep. It's all very fascinating. My husband is a lucky, lucky man.