It's like Christmas!

I made the husband a deal, I was able to order all the baby furniture before the room was done if I promised not to expect to put them together until the room is done. Sounds easy right? Not as easy as you may think.

The changing table arrived first. And the first temptation presented itself. I resisted, until I saw that it included a changing pad.

"It has a changing pad! Oh well, then I'm just gonna have to open it to make sure it's a good changing pad"

The husband just smiled and shook his head. "Ok honey, but don't take it all out or we'll never get it back in"

"Ok, but just a little peek"

The bookshelf and the glider/ottoman arrived next. The UPS man had left me a giant present on my front porch. Once inside I called the husband to announce that the glider had arrived. He knew what I was thinking. There's was no way that I wasn't opening the glider. And he was right, the glider lasted a total of 10 mins inside the house before I was wielding a kitchen knife slicing at the packaging tape.

"I just want to make sure it's all ok and not broken"

"Ok honey you can open it"

"Oh! look it's only in two pieces, I could put this together in no time, I'll call you back"

"Honey...." click

15 mins later the glider was put together sitting in our living room. Only then did I realize the consequences of my actions. Getting this up the stairs, down the hall and into the room would have been much easier if it were still in pieces in a box. God, I hate it when he's right.

The crib arrived yesterday in the middle of the worst snow storm our area had seen in several years. I, of course, knew it was going to arrive before it even left the terminal thanks to UPS tracking information. So, when we were released early from work and my package hadn't arrived the stalking began. I waited, impatiently, with my nose pressed against the glass for any sign of the UPS man. Each car that dared drive down our unplowed road was a let down. Finally I heard the distinct sound of a diesel delivery truck coming down the road. I became overjoyed. However, my joy was short lived as I watched the UPS truck wiz by my house. I was crushed, what if the weather would keep the crib from coming? Eeek! I decided that this was like a watched pot, it wouldn't come if I watched for it. So I went out to run a quick errand, and low and behold when I returned, my present was there. Whew! What a relief.

I again called the husband to announce that the crib had arrived. This time he pleaded with me not to open the box.

"Honey, we'll put it together this weekend"

"Oookaaay"

However a snow emergency has left me at home again for a second day. Alone. Just me and the box. We'll see who prevails.

God has a sick sense of humor

Ask any pregnant woman and she'll tell you that when you are pregnant you are gassy. I'm not talking you just ate Taco Bell gassy, I'm talking you just ate an entire plate of beans and onions smothered in chili gassy. It's horrible. Unfortunate as it may be, it's something that as the pregnancy continues, you learn to deal with. You find creative ways to cover the smell and the sound so that people within your fog range won't know it's you. I've also found that I've developed an excellent poker face. Ninety percent of the time the husband can't figure out if it was me, the dog or another random noise.

However, recently the husband has launched a "lifestyle change" initiative that has him quitting smoking and eating healthier. Normally this would be wonderful, except we have learned that when you mix the husband with green leafy vegetables the bi-product is the most foul, gag yourself gas I've ever smelled. It's worse than my pregnancy gas. I literally need a gas mask just to sleep next to him at night. Apparently the husband not only is gaining sympathy weight, he's also getting sympathy gas. God help our pets.

Still catching up

Talk to many mom's and they'll tell you one of the best things about being pregnant is feeling their little one move and squirm inside them. They love the feeling and love that it is a shared moment just between them. I also enjoy the movements, sometimes they tickle and make me smile, other times it feels like he's spread-eagle and rearranging my internal organs. However, by all accounts it is simply awe inspiring. Lucy the cat however, is completely terrified.

Lucy is my extremely affectionate stray that I took in over a year ago. Her hobbies include, terrorizing Fred the basset, making Riley the abnormally large tabby jealous and scaling large pieces of furniture in a single bound. Her favorite past time is curling up on my belly and taking a "cat nap". This has become increasingly difficult in recent months as my belly has increased in size forcing her to take her naps half on half off my belly. However, after a couple of weeks ago, she avoids my belly like the plague.

We were both comfy cozy snuggling on the couch watching whatever nerd show annoyed the husband the most, when Tyler began his usual 6:30pm acrobatic session. However, instead of it being a shared moment between just he and I, he apparently enjoyed Lucy's incessant purring that vibrated my belly, and began thumping and poking in response. The movement startled her so much that she jumped up, backed into a corner of the couch and twitched her tail feverishly. For a split moment I pictured her pouncing with claws extended confusing Tyler's movements with a mouse, but thankfully she spared me that pain and simply chose to nap on my feet instead.

Since this occurrence she has not returned to her nap spot perched atop my belly, and perhaps she never will. However, just wait till Tyler gets here and he grabs her tail with a sticky hand. Should be tons of fun!

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.

Better late than never

So it has been pointed out to me that I am severely lacking in my blogging. Uhm...perhaps :)

What do you mean you noticed I hadn't posted anything since Nov 29th??? (nervous giggle)

So to get this train back on track, over then next couple posts, I'll attempt to recap the past two months. Imagine this literary montage set to music with fade in and outs with lots of canned laughter. Action!

We'll kick this recap off with my 3hr $1200 stay in L&D (labor and delivery for you non-preggos) in early December. When what I thought was just really bad gas built up from my inability to fart, turned into severe cramping/nausea the husband panicked, called the doctor, rushed me to the hospital, only to find out waiting in the hospital is extremely boring. Especially after a diagnosed UTI and several good drugs knocked me out for 3hrs. Have no fear though, he kept himself busy wandering aimlessly the halls of L&D poking his head into other peoples occupied rooms only to respond, "Don't worry, I'm just picking out our room". To which he did of course and promptly wheeled me down the hall to present it as if it were an undiscovered treasure. Some days he's just too cute.

A week later it was the day of the BIG ultrasound. I really don't think the husband slept the night before. And despite the fact that my UTI was still giving me horrible nausea, we heard the doctor say:
"I think it's a boy..."
His eyes lit up, and he was almost giddy. I, on the other hand, was trying desperatly not to puke all over my doctor as she tried to get me to lay still and get a few good pictures. On the way home, I'm pretty sure he'd called everyone in the yellow pages to announce that it was a boy. He was one proud papa.

We were floating on cloud nine for about a week, when the rash started. It was red, bumpy, itchy and it was spreading. Yes, it could have had a debut in it's own horror film.

"Just when you thought it was safe to go without a shirt...."
"It's the RASH!!" (screaming pedestrians, run fleeing from my sight)

It just kept spreading. After several hours on Web-md and convincing myself of the fact that I was dying from something similar to west Nile virus, I called the doctor.

"Yes come in we'd better take a look at you."

Imagine my surprised to see the puzzled look on her face.

"I don't know what that is, better go see a dermatologist. "

Enter in doctor #2,

"Uhm, not quite sure, why don't you come back tomorrow, lets see if it spreads"

Thump, thump, thump. Hello in there, didn't you hear me, I already told you it's spreading. No use, so I reluctantly returned a second day in a row only to continue to puzzle her.

"I think it's shingles" she remarks with a hint of doubt in her voice.

Which led her to take a biopsy, stitch me up, tell me to stay away from old people, children who hadn't had chicken pox and pregnant women and sent me on my merry way. Uhm, ok...what about the fact that I'M PREGNANT?!? Hello???

"Oh you'll be just fine" she smiles and says.

So, two days before Christmas eve, and I'm quarantined. (sound of jail bars slamming shut) No Christmas ham and cookies for me.

So I resort to the only thing I can think of. I make my own Christmas cookies. I invite my BFF over on a Friday night and we keep ourselves up until 1am making 16 dozen evil Christmas cookies. I call them evil because at the time I did not know that they would bring about the demise of my modest weight gain.

"Damn you frosted snowman cutouts! Why must you taste so soft and creamy, why do you beckon me from the kitchen, taunt me with your sprinkles and your waving hand. As if almost to say, I love you, come eat me!"

And I realize the full weight of my actions at my January appointment. The nurse calmly guides me to step on the scale. I was prepared to have gained some weight. It was obvious to everyone around me, my belly was HUGE! But I wasn't prepared for the big fat number it put up on the digital screen. I nearly fell off the scale.

"Uhm, looks like we gained 7lbs." I rolled my eyes and dared her to laugh.

"Not what you wanted to see, huh?" Look lady does it look like I'm happy about 7 freaking pounds!! And of course my doctor had to pound the final nail in the coffin when she looked at my chart, looked at me and asked:

"Do you think this is right, seems a bit much. Oh well, I guess we did just come off the holidays"

Light bulb

"Ya those stupid Christmas cookies did me in" I joked back.

Stay tuned tomorrow to find out what else goes wrong in the second trimester

It's time to play guess that gender!

In two weeks T and I will head to the baby doctor to find out the answer to the question on everyone's lips.

"What are you having, a boy or a girl?"

We have spent many days debating this in our household. T is CONVINCED that it's a boy, although he quietly claims that he just hopes it's a boy because he doesn't have clue one on how to shop for a little girl. I, on the other hand would be very happy to have a boy first, but secretly I think it's going to be a little girl, mainly because Karma likes my sister better than I and she wants another girl in the family. So for those of you who would like to try their hand at gender guessing select your pick below and post your guess in the comment section. Of those who guess correctly I will pick one winner at random and they will win one night of babysitting our newest addition absolutely free!! So start your guessing and I'll post the winner once we've found out the baby's gender

What do you think Greek baby will be?

Boy Girl

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It's that time of year again.

God wears a sweater vest

GO BUCKS!

BEAT MICHIGAN

I'll take one in a floral pattern

It's official, I have gained 4lbs since I got pregnant. I am not happy about this. I thought I was golden, I'd been cruisin' right along, no weight gain. Then last week I went in for a last minute check-up and I'd gain 2lbs since the last time she'd seen me. I kept my appt for today and when they weighted me again, I'd gain ANOTHER 2lbs!! At this rate my dad will be right and I'll be wearing a circus tent by the time I'm 9 mos. I tried to console myself with the thought that eating lunch 10 mins before I was weighted was not the brightest idea I've had, but at most that added a pound. My only saving grace is that next month the BIG u/s is in the morning. No one weights fat in the morning. Yes, I realize that it won't be a "true" weight, but a girl can have small allowances, right? I mean come on you know when you get on the scale and you realize if you lean just slightly left or right you weigh a pound or two less. You know you do it, admit it, we all do it. That's because we're all obsessed with our weight. For example, who here actually has their true weight on their drivers license? No one! Mine still says I weight 130 lbs. HA! ya right! Maybe when I was in high school, playing three sports and working out 2hrs a day five days a week. But every time I go to the BMV and they ask me if anything has changed that I would like to update, I just smile and say no. I mean who really looks at the weight on my drivers license anyway? The only way they'd ever need those vital statistics is if I disappeared, and in that case a recent photo of me will reveal to anyone that I weight no where near 130lbs. I'm sure all the police men would get a real good laugh out of that one. But I don't change it because I like to fool myself into believing that if I REALLY tried I could weight that again, or that I'm just going through a "phase" that I'm trying to rid myself of of my college weight. Ya that's it, it's the freshman 15 hanging around and then another 15 for each year I was in college, then I've got the newlywed 9 on top of that, and lets just throw another 20 in for feeling comfortable in my own body. Ya that's about right, not pretty but it's about right.

New Boobs

I have decided Monday TV is boring. There is nothing interesting on, besides watching a very germaphobic Howie Mandel try not to run screaming down the aisles after being hugged by one of his show's contestants. Quite humorous actually. So after flipping through the 400 channels we have for like the fifth time, I concluded that the only thing decent on was a rerun of Extreme make-over on the style network. The show was typical, two women who hate they way they look are convinced the only way to find true happiness is through plastic surgery. And I found myself wondering, if a little fairy fell out of the sky and promised to give me $20,000 in plastic surgery to make me happy, would I take it? Uhm....probably not, I'd ask for it in cash and go buy Macy's entire shoe and purse section. That would bring me eternal happiness. I'd have a coach purse for every outfit with matching shoes. Or maybe I should go to Saks and ransack the LV store....yes, that would be much better. However if said fairy came to me in about a year, after my bewbies have started to sag due to breastfeeding I might answer this questions completely differently. There in lies the beauty of a fantasy, you can change your mind a hundred times and the genie will always give you another wish.

Finally something new!

After a temporary hiatus, I have returned to fill your lives with joy and entertainment. And even if you don't find me entertaining, just smile and nod, it makes me feel better. Over the past couple of weeks I have found my muse has taken a leave of absence and I no longer am able to find inspiration in the smallest thing. I am expecting her to return on Monday so until then, help me decide what Santa should bring the great Greek baby for Christmas.

What should Santa bring greek baby for Christmas?

The Ocean Wonders Swing The Rainforest Swing

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Hormonal Overload

Last night was the big one. The emotional breakdown that had been building for 12 weeks. It was desperately needed. The tears fell uninhibited and I wailed like a pre-menstrual teenager who just broke up with "the love of her life" for close to two hours. It was not pretty and it certainly was not something I am proud of. Like the early morning glow after a night of indiscretion, I woke up with a heavy heart, puffy eyes and a nagging feeling I'd said something most definitely harmful. What spurred this overflow of emotion? Was it brought on by an emotional empty comment by the husband? Nope. Was it triggered by one of the many insensitive political mudslinging ads that bombard us every night? Nope. Maybe it was the result of a hallmark card moment between me and Riley the cat? Nope. I was just emotional and I couldn't hold it in any more. So I did the one thing any insane woman in my situation would do. I picked a fight with the husband. Now keep in mind I am no stranger to fight picking, I'm an expert. I've mastered my technique and perfected it down to a science where almost always can I manage to make the fight I pick look like the husbands fault. And in those few and far between incidences where that doesn't work I plead emotional instability. Last night was one of the latter. After rambling on about everything that he had done in the last millennia that bothered me I took a deep breath and realized I wasn't winning this fight. So I switched tactics, started crying and pleaded that the stress I was under was way too much for me to handle. While everything I complained about was true, in the middle of our little tiff was probably not the most appropriate time to bring it all up. When I still didn't receive the emotional pick-me-up my little preggo heart needed I instinctively switched back to bitching. About this time the husband decided he'd had enough of listening to me lay out out all of his flaws and stopped responding in a loving consoling manner. To a highly emotional pregnant woman is the equivalent of saying "I've had enough of your bitching and moaning, when you've run out of hot air, raise a flag in surrender." It took me a good ten minutes of this before I realized that he'd also switched tactics. Realizing my efforts were futile, I sadly acknowledged defeat and agreed it was best to continue discussing this in the morning. Looking back at the episode I realized that the husband has come leaps and bounds in his fighting technique. His phases of fighting were very much like the stages of life. Early in our relationship the mere sight of one of my tears would send him into a tailspin running around trying to find immediate solutions to my imaginary pain. Similar to a child still trying to figure out emotional backlash. Then he progressed to all out shouting back, in teenager fashion, which personally was not my favorite. He now has blossomed into an adult fighter who has learned all of my tricks and no longer falls for my petty attempts for attention. His fighting style is now that of a mature adult who's fights resembles more of a discussion than adolescent bickering. To the husband, I say Bravo! Congratulations! However for me, it's back to the drawing board. I've got 5 more months of pregnancy, I need to find his weakness and use it to my advantage. (insert evil echo laughter here)

Baby doctor day!

It's time for my monthly baby doctor visit. I'm just a teeny bit excited, hoping she'll do another ultrasound and this time the baby will actually resemble a baby instead of the pinto bean it looked like at 6 weeks. I'm also a bit weary, I've got to step on the BIG scale today. I'm hoping the scale won't lie and get me in trouble. I'm only suppose to gain 5-10lbs the entire pregnancy. Is this goal realistic, not really. And of course there's nothing like knocking a relatively confident woman down a peg or two by making her weight herself. However, fat or not fat, every woman is somewhat comfortable with her body. She may not like the fact that her thighs look slightly like cottage cheese, or that her belly is closer to a keg than a six pack, or that her increasing amount of wrinkles can no longer pass as "laugh lines". But there comes a point in our lives when we step back from ourselves, take a deep breath and evaluate where we are in life. Everything we currently have is everything we've always wanted. And we stop caring about how other perceive us, realize that who loves us now is who really matters and start living our lives. We say heck with the stereotype that women must all be one size and decide to enjoy that piece of pie, savor that slice of cake or revel in the taste of that fresh baked cookie. We go out to dinner just because it sounds like a good idea and we set out on a course to enjoy everything life has to offer. For today, I'm just hoping the doctor doesn't yell at me :)

Please explain...

Old Navy is selling maternity THONGS!?! Their description read as follows:

Designed especially for moms-to-be! Cotton-spandex blend is wonderfully soft and stretchy. Cute thong cut eliminates panty lines. Elastic waistband fits snugly under tummy, with lustrous elastic trim for style and comfort.

What on God's green earth makes them think that:
A) We would need one more thing to make us uncomfortable especially in the form of dental floss
b) We are in need of something cute to attract the opposite of sex, apparently we are not lacking in THAT department
c) These would even look remotely cute on our butts that now require their own postal zip code.
d) That with the million other things going on we'd be worried about panty lines!

Not to mention that these are described as "low-rise" Honey, when your belly is expanding everyday, everything is low rise. Nothing fits like it use to and everything falls well below the belly not to be seen again for the better part of a year. Forget cute panites, give me the good old-fashion granny panties. The kind with pink and blue flowers, that come half way up to your boobs and have enough material in the butt to blanket the state of Texas. I'm much less likely to suffer from perpetual plumbers crack with those.

Bonus Days!

It once again is the arrival of the holiest of holy days. The days that make my heart flutter, my step and my wallet a little light. Clinque bonus days! Oh how I treasure thee. I can barely wait to go down and see what our special little present will be this time! And how wonderful is it that I have $20 left over on a Macy's gift card from forever ago. I will try to resist purchasing everything the counter girl suggests, but I'm simply not responsible for any purchases made during these stress full times. Happy shopping!

It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's just me having a fat day

I meant to do laundry this weekend. I brought everything down sorted it into piles and somehow got distracted by the kitchen that couldn't keep itself clean. So my wonderful husband said he'd help and do several loads of laundry! How sweet, considering he was sick most of the weekend. Secretly I think he was feeling useless and needed something productive to make him feel like he contributed. But either way, it helped out a lot. Then I remembered why I don't let him do laundry. Everything goes into one load on warm and EVERYTHING goes into the dryer. Not to mention that his folding skills leave something to be desired. I also discovered that of the three loads he did, almost all of it were his clothes. Oh I had a few select items thrown in for good measure, but were any of the pants that actually still fit washed? Nope, how about the three bras that still fit? Nah, and forget anything else appropriate to wear to work. Hence today I am wearing a parachute. I was able to find in the far recesses of my closet, a pair of cargo pants that sadly resemble parachute material. I swish when I walk, I have strings with no purpose hanging from my legs and way too many zippered pockets to be absolutely necessary. Not to mention that nothing looks good with them. Good thing no one at work is really worth impressing. I could come in wearing a garbage bag and they'd just be happy to see me on a Monday.

Here's your sign...

The husband and I had to attend a wedding over the weekend. My stepsister's big day had finally arrived. Naturally, I tried to look impeccably put together, but as usual I failed miserably. I had chosen not to purchase a special dress for the occasion, instead I wore a dress that I adored but only had worn one other time. Unfortunately, to my own dismay, one half hour before we were scheduled to arrive, I put my dress on only to find that I looked WAY more pregnant in this get-up than I should. I was just 2 weeks shy of beginning my 4th month, however it looked like I had stuffed a half deflated beach ball down my dress. Now what! However with no other alternatives I grabbed my pashmina, sucked up my pride and my stomach and headed out the door. The husband tried to reassure me I looked wonderful, but I think he could sense my hostility and was just trying to avoid world war 5. While at the wedding I felt comfortable in the safety of my church pew that no one could judge me. However at the reception was a completely different story. I felt like everyone was staring at me, in awe of how large I was. And sadly most of these people probably just figured I was just really FAT! Which just made the situation even worse. I decided I needed a sign for all the onlookers that read:

"No, I'm not this fat, I'm pregnant, thanks"

After two pieces of cake, which I thought would make me feel better, I told the husband I wanted to go home a wallow in my own misery.

Sunday, feeling just as fat and looking considerably more pregnant than yesterday, if that was even possible, I decided to test my theory. I donned a shirt that a friend had given to me several weeks ago that read "I heart baby" right across my belly. Genius! Now there shall be no confusion as to why my belly had the circumference of a yoga ball. However, this plan back-fired, people continued starting, most with blank looks on their faces of complete confusion as to what my shirt actually said. That's just great, people, maybe next time I'll try a cardboard sign. Or maybe I'm just cranky today.

Farting to the rescue

When we were kids farts were funny. You told fart jokes, made fart noises with your armpits and the palms of your hands, and crowned the king of farts. As we grew older farts became the one way to guarantee your alienation from any and all social groups. If you were unlucky enough to have one creep out on you, you were destined to be teased and humliated for the whole of your adolecence. This of course applied to boys only, because as girls we don't fart. We're incapable of doing so, we don't even have the proper organs to do so. Even Gallagher showcased our lack of flatulance in one of his skits stating "Women don't fart...they bitch." As unflattering as that may sound, it's quite true. While men grow up and end up reverting back to childish high fives for an "awesome fart man!". Women have learned to release this pent up energy through our constant nagging and bitching. It become twice as bad during "that time of the month" when our gas production goes into overdrive. While we may have the occasional "slip" we'd never admit to it. We hide, blame it on our chairs, or look around aimlessly for the unknown source of said noise.

However, everything we have learned as girls goes right out the window when we become pregnant. Gas production is at it's peak. Everything we eat gives us uncontrollable gas. And not just little toots or silent ones. We're talking about the ones you can hear for blocks and their so noxious it could clear a room. Unfortunately we pregnant women must fart or die. The gas pressure can build up so bad that it feels as if your stomach will explode. So farting is a welcome release, in privacy of course. Now the husband in our three years of being together, has yet to hear me fart. He claims it's a myth, a fabrication of my imagination. He just can't believe I fart! So naturally he doubts me when I tell him I can't stop farting. And it has become his latest obsession. He gets mad when I don't fart around him, or if I fart and he's not there. He's tried sneaking up on me, sitting outside the bathroom door listening, and waking up in the middle of the night to listen. As he puts it "I just have to smell one of these doozies you keep talking about". And thus proves that within each of us lies the mind of a small child.

Twiggy

There is something to be said for shopping while pregnant. Not only does your mind not think rationally, nine wine goblets that match my china pattern for $150 what a steal! But everything makes you feel fatter than you really are. Now, I am in no way saying that I'm not carrying around a spare tire, or two. Both of which I can thank the lovely husband for convincing me that I'm beautiful just the way I am, and in my warped mind that means bring on the chocolate! But when you stand me next to a 15 yr old girl, who has barely hit puberty, weights a buck and a quarter soaking wet and is wearing the clothing equivalent to underwear while shopping it makes it a little hard not to be a little critical of one's own body. Both of her thighs together weren't near the size of one of mine, and my ass certainly required it's own zipcode in comparison. However, my saving grace, I had boobs! I had gobs of boobs. Hers were tiny little mosquito bites compared to my womanly breasts. So, instead of allowing this critical expose of our bodies send me into emotional over-drive running head long for the nearest ice cream shop, I sucked in my gas inflated protruding belly as best as possible, stuck out my chest, flipped my hair around and marched myself proudly out of the store. Proudly, of course, was short lived as I walked smack into the glass front doors. Stunned and a bit embarrassed I tried as best as possible to sneak out without any further humiliations. While I may have made and ass of myself at least I have front bumper pads to cushion my falls.

Too...exhausted...today...to...type...enjoy...someone...
else's...blog...until...tomorrow...

www.lookydaddy.com

Ladies and Gentlemen I have an announcement:

I am wearing elastic waist pants, and they're comfortable! Now you may be throwing your hands up in fright and trying to stifle a scream of horror, but I understand. I too had flash backs to my mother in the 80's with her elastic waist jeans when I first laid eyes on them. However after my breakdown earlier this week and the official packing up of prepregnancy pants, I am left with pants that slightly resemble work out wear or elastic waist pants. Neither are really all that flattering on a professional 26 yr old but the choices are quite restrictive. While I may not have gained any weight (yet) or sport a joyous belly yet that buldges and screams "I am pregnant!" the transfer of my weight from my nether regions to my midsection have become obvious. This additional mass in my midsection has made my prepregnancy jeans fit similar to a woman who has obviously gone up a jean size or two, but refuses to accept her larger size and insists on wearing her smaller jeans. She is no longer able to comfortably pull them on and has resorted to lying down on the bed to get them to zip. The proverbial "muffin top" is also present and in the end I usually just unbuttoned them at my desk and enjoyed the bliss of additional space. So to this I will single handedly attempt to revive the elastic waist pant in an effort avoid looking like an idiot for my remaining 7 months of pregnancy. Join me in my efforts, purchase your own pair and rock on with your bad self!