She has arrived just in time to celebrate the final two months until Harrison’s arrival!
I despise the term "Babymoon."
9 Jul posted by
Really, folks. It’s far too cutesy.
Regardless, Nate & I are off to Charleston for four days to celebrate a) three years of wedded bliss b) the kid I’m currently incubating and c) my swollen left ankle.
Because that shiz is IMPRESSIVE. That’s 9:30am, folks. I seriously might cry because you could GO SWIMMING IN MY ANKLE there is so much fluid. Compression hosiery, here I come…because nothing says “sexy” like dressing like your Grandma Doris.
& I need a good nickname for my ankle. Start brainstorming, although “THE BEAST” is the front-runner in my mind.
Random side note: Really, the Gestational Diabetes test with the 100% KoolAid proof syrup really isn’t that terrible. I chugged far worse things in college, including the contents of a cooler that had fruit at the bottom. Thankfully, I don’t remember much of the experience except sitting in a chair singing “Magic Carpet Ride” while the Lambda Chi’s hoisted me over their heads in a circle.
Right. ::side-eye::
Sadly, the after-shock of the GD test wasn’t quite as memorable, minus general queasiness & the shakes that come with a lethal injection of sugar into your blood stream. So far, no news is good news & I assume I passed the test.
Y’all have a WONDERFUL weekend…I shall return with lovely pictures of my left ankle touring the Battery & Fort Sumpter (woot, history buffs unite!) on Sunday. smoochies.
This is what I get for throwing it out there to the universe.
17 Jun posted by
I have new stretchies! They were not there yesterday morning…but they were there last night! 12 hours is all it takes to be marked, my friends.
Right on my ass. Vertical. On each cheek, to balance out the universe.
I shall call the ones on the left side The Jonas Brothers & the ones on the right…The Backstreet Boys.
oh, yes.
Who’s afraid of the big bad stretchie?
15 Jun posted by
NOT ME.
Yes, that is my right hip in all of it’s blubbery, pasty Irish glory. & the guests of honor, of course — my stretch marks!
I chuckle when pregnant women run screaming to their local Target, ravishing the cream isles at the first sign of a pink line on their hips or belly. Ladies, please. I was BORN with stretch marks. You do not get to Cindy Crawford’s height without battle wounds! Truly, I think it was 5th grade when I noticed my first stretchie in ballet class. Thankfully, I was too young for it to register horror, so I used to poke at it & scratch it while we stretched on the floor (toes pointed, of course), wondering “WHAT IS THIS ODD PINK LIGHTENING BOLT?” I was also wearing a bra by the fourth grade, so it is no shock that God marked me by my 11th birthday.
By my 16th birthday, my thighs, breasts, ass, & hips were marked with white ragged lines. & I still rocked a bikini on the beach as a teenager. So please…forgive my eye roll at any woman who panics at her first stretch when she’s 30 due to carrying another human being. Sympathy can be found in the dictionary between shit & syphilis.
Oddly enough, Harrison has yet to give me any new stretch marks…he’s just expanding the old-school members of The League of Blair’s Fat Butt. It’s kind of odd to watch a white stretch get a pink tip on it as it expands…interesting. I’m pretty sure that I’ve seen constellation patterns forming, which is mildly exciting & may deem the need for an evening with a Sharpie marker.
I see stretchies as a simple rite of passage — into adolescence, into motherhood, into being a female. Embrace them. & put down the effing cream, okay? Don’t you think that Bill Gates would have competition if someone really found a $10 cream that cured stretch marks?
A list of sorts.
27 Mar posted by
Things that suck:
- pulling & cramping a muscle while trying to poop
- torrents of rain falling as I dash between daycare centers sans umbrella
- Realizing that childcare + our mortgage will potentially eat up 65% of our combined income
- The bossman currently ditching my proposal to drop to four days
- watching my well-laid plans spin around a metaphorical toilet bowl at the word “unlikely”
- panic attacks revolving around the inability to afford my spawn
Things that do not suck quite so bad:
- lemonade from Chick Fil A
- a daycare director telling me that I am too slim to possibly be knocked up, even though I know that’s an effing lie
