And the saga continues...

I am constantly dumbfounded by the bodily changes that I incur each day. But the winner by a landslide has to be my new crop of body hairs that have sprouted on my belly. Where once I just had a small patch of light blondish hair just below my navel has morphed into all out peach fuzz. I stare at myself in utter amazement. Good Lord, I'm a hairy beast! Do I need to shave? I have a five o'clock shadow on this beach ball of a belly! Oh, please god don't let the husband noticed, he'd laugh for hours over this!

As if the husband doesn't find my little nuances funny enough. His favorite past time has got to be watching me attempt to put my shoes on any time we go anywhere.

In order to leave on time, I have to ensure I'm fully dressed a good 10 mins before just to allow enough time to put my shoes on. The process is very overwhelming and exhausting. Socks are somewhat ok, because they've got some stretch to them. So once I get my big toe in I can usually wiggle my foot around until it's on. However, getting the shoe on it much more difficult. I prefer to wear my tennis shoes because they are supremely more comfortable than anything else I have in my closet, and flip flops in 30 degree weather would have me looking like a complete moron. Not to mention require me to actually reach my toes to paint them. So after about 5 minutes of strange looking yoga moves in a feeble attempt to put the shoe on, the husband usually resorts to having to help. We keep saying we'll buy slip on tennies when I get further along, however they have yet to miraculously appear in my closet.

The emotional upheaval that I experience regularly has the husband wondering if aliens have kidnapped his wife. The books warn about weepiness and depressed mood swings, so he is "somewhat" prepared for when I have one of my weekly emotional breakdowns. I use the term somewhat loosely because I never cease to amaze him with what will reduce me to a blubbering mess in 10 seconds flat. But what they don't warn the husbands about is the sheer panic feelings that launch a sneak attack on me.

I'm a planner by nature, I'm also a worrier by nature. These two traits combined with an increase in hormones equals constant nagging of the husband to complete the nursery and other honey-do items on my completely unrealistic time table. Which, when said work isn't completed results in one of two things: tears or yelling. Neither of which is a favorite around our house.