 |
| Wait. It's going to come out of where??? |
Nine months. Nine months. Nine months. That's all you ever hear. There was even that movie with Hugh Grant and Julianne Moore... which I thought I liked, but there's a scene where Julianne's character tries to get rid of Hugh's character's cat because she's totally jelly that it's way cuter than her and her baby. Or maybe it was because she had an irrational fear of
toxoplasmosis (which, FYI, she was much more likely to get from contaminated produce or meat at her fictional grocery store). Either way, two paws down. But back to business: "nine" months are actually ten, kinda like how "morning" sickness is any damn time sickness. Dick move, preggy books.
Baby is the Size of a... mini watermelon. Ahem... mini?
Swell Hell: Le sigh. It's hard to give the middle finger when you have no feeling in it.
Weight Gain: I stopped counting.
Sleep: Well, the finish line is in sight and I still find that giant U-shaped body pillow (the one that all the preggy books said I HAD TO HAVE) to be a cumbersome, suffocating, overpriced, unnecessary, pain in my ass.
I'm looking forward to... what do you think?!? (I mean, besides pizza night.)
