Yesterday, Vegs and I celebrated (well, if you count a pretty normal Sunday filled w/ breakfast at Cracker Barrel, grocery shopping and house cleaning as celebrating) 5 years together. We will have the baby just shy of our 5 year wedding anniversary, and there is no person so perfect for me in the entire world.
I told him last night, “It’s like we were meant to be together.” And I know that sounds trite and cliche, but it’s so true. We fit together in ways I can’t explain, and there’s no one in the world I would rather be with.
He He is the kindest, most patient man. Maybe not with the rest of the world, but certainly with me, and I know he will be with our children. He is funny, supportive, handsome, smart, and keeps me on my toes. He calls me on my bullshit (though he lets a lot fly), and reminds me of the things that are important to me, and us. Our goals are so in line with one another, and I couldn’t imagine making babies with anyone else.
I hope our babe has his thick, dark hair, his wit, his memory, his laugh, his friendliness.
Baby, your very lucky to come into a home with two parents who are so madly in love with you, but also who are so madly in love with one another.
You know how some fat girls have awesome racks, so it kind of tricks the world into not seeing their fatness, or at least overlooking their fatness for the sake of their chesticles? I have never been one of those fat girls. I’m more of a belly and butt kind of chubster, and the thing I’ve longed for most in life is a nice bosom. I’ve plagued the husband with pleas for a boob job, I spend significant time each day examining them, forcing them into bras w/ disgusting gel inserts, etc.
But then I got pregnut. (I like to say pregnant like the girls on MTV’s horrible, yet addictive Teen Mom say pregnant.) And man alive, if my boobs aren’t finally meeting my expectations! People may bitch and moan about their achy, heavy boobers, but I don’t mind the tenderness and itchiness and weird veins and myriad of other freaky crap if it means that I’m gonna get another cup size out of this. BOOBS!
I’m incredibly happy about this. I haven’t had to add padding to my bras for weeks, and they seem to just be getting bigger. It’s like I’m going through puberty all over again, only this time it’s working! I’m especially fond of the fact that regardless of my junk-laden diet, I don’t seem to be putting on much weight elsewhere (though my pants refuse, REFUSE to button…) and it’s all in the breasties.
God bless you, little baby, for all the miracles you are and will bring. And thanks for the nice, new rack, too.
(I’m probably going to get a lot of pervert spam for this one. But I can’t help it, it’s like all my wishes are coming true in one fell swoop!)
Before I went to sleep last night (for the third time) I rolled over to Vegs and said, “Does it freak you out that we’re going to be PARENTS?”
I’ve been so focused on feeling sick (because in my world feeling sick = body doing the right thing) and being anxious about the pregnancy, I haven’t bothered to think about the fact that Little One is really coming, and that I’m going to be a mommy.
I’m already so in love with my little (almost tailless!) embryo (almost fetus!) and I’m so excited to fall in love with the little person she or he will become.
I wonder about her/him all the time. Will baby have a lot of hair when it comes out like I did? Will the hair be black? Will s(he) be funny? Smart? Musical? Artistic? Athletic? What will make her sad? What will make him happy?
Will I be good enough? Will I be able to cope with the heartbreak that will come when noggins get bumped or when they’re frustrated with me?
How will I raise them to be good? How will I teach them right from wrong? Can I make certain that they will be kind?
I’m so full of questions this morning. And awe and wonder at the fact that In 7 short months we’ll get to meet the child we’ve been waiting so long for. I’m so incredibly grateful for this opportunity, this blessing.
I am also freaking bawling my eyes out at my desk. Oh, silly emotions, always getting the best of me.
I promise there won’t be an update every time I blow chunks, but, I just had the pleasure of making a lot of disgusting noises in the bathroom at my place of employ.
Apparently, you pass 8 weeks and you are the Barf King.
As much as I feel like I’m kind of bitching/moaning about the barf/nausea stuff, I promise, I couldn’t be more grateful. It’s a reminder that my body is doing as it’s told, and that little Peanut is growing. Barf away, sister, barf away…
I have thrown up maybe 5 times in the last 10 years. All of them booze-based barfies, and let me tell you, they were rough going. It takes A LOT to make me vom, so I’m shocked that last night I was, for the first time in probably 15-20 years, able to barf sober. (Unless HCG and progesterone are “drugs”).
After the weeks of dry-heaving, being able to actually get something out was the greatest gift.
I really hope that this can continue. As gross as it is, it seems to be helping, cutting me free from the constant nausea.
We can cross Kraft macaroni and cheese of the list of anything I’ll be eating in the next little while…
and took my bra off at my desk.
I get classier and classier as each day goes by…
At least, that’s what I assume the perception is from the general population, since everywhere I walk I make these high-pitched retching sounds. No vomit, ever, just constant public retching.
Last night, we were coming up the stairs from our underground parking, and as we reached the top (I was walking behind El Vego) I started freaking out and retching, and accusing him of farting in my face. He hadn’t, to be clear, but rather, Orem was wafting a particularly sewer-y stench last night. However, the girl behind us only heard me shrieking “You farted in my face!” followed by retching all the way up to our apartment.
Today, on one of my many walks across campus, I was walking alone across what is ultimately a big tunnel, which means that as I started my violent noise seizures, the dry-heaving echoed from one end to another, and I walked, raptor-like through it, trying to avoid eye contact with the 3 people I had to walk by making my barf noises.
It works a lot better when you’re not alone, because at least you have someone to rub your back and show the world that there is actually something wrong(ish) rather than just being the creepy raptor girl that makes dry-heaver noises as she passes by…