It’s a Maternity “Tuesday” day because I spent Maternity Monday throwing some money at the struggling economy with my Momma and literally shopping until I dropped. But I do think I did pretty well keeping up until it was time to make dinner, in which case I was more of a house plant than a help… and then we watched HGTV from the pool until my back felt better. All of these things pulled rank over my blog but I trust that your disappointment lasted no longer than my credit limit did at Target.
You know what’s pulling rank over my blog while I type this? Lunch. Because I feel like I haven’t been fed in the last year. Which is so far from the truth and I have a fridge full of my mom’s amazing leftovers to prove it (mmmmm…. beef stroganoff). It’s actually a pregnancy miracle that lunch made it to work with my today because pregnancy brain is getting the better of me. I spent 30 seconds staring at dear husband trying to recall his name and hoping he didn’t take offense to me calling him “Hey, you!” followed by a grouching order to take out the trash, take off his shoes in my house, or give me the television remote. And then a kiss so I don’t seem like such a hormonal bitch (naturally).
This week is the week of the low patience. Week may be a little generic, actually. Perhaps I should just declare it the minute of the low patience because I’m about to scream at someone at work and I can’t entirely identify why, however I’m willing to bet that they don’t take it with as much understanding as the man that I’m married to (what’s his name again?).
So hormones? Memory loss? Check. Check.
I haven’t checked in with my weight lately on the blog, but I find that it’s important to weigh yourself immediately upon a positive pee test so that you have a baseline in which to openly judge yourself for the next 9 months. In my case, I started at 116, went down to 114 when I decided that food was the enemy, and now am 125 with a relocated scale so that I would stop looking. I’m gaining weight at a slow but healthy rate and unless the doctor tells me otherwise, I’m assuming that I’m allowed to stuff my face with as much of this beef stroganoff as I damn well please (or until the baby sends it back up, which ever limit occurs first). So pass the bowl of peaches and get the hell out of my way (blah, blah nutrient-rich protein-heavy snacks blah).
And before I forget (or have I already mentioned this?…. I forget), my baby is about 11 inches long and claiming at least one of those healthy pounds for himself (my chest claims at least another 8, but that’s beside the point). 11 inches is the size of…… a 22 gestational-week old baby.
One of the errands that my mom and I made yesterday was to the baby store. They were fresh out of babies (dagnabbit), but it was fun to walk my mom around and point out all of the things that we registered for and show her just how correct Angel was in his assessment that I’ve turned into a crazy type A super planner. But she only secretly judges, and I adore her for that.
I would love to talk about more, but I’m reaching the bottom of my beef stroganoff bowl and the end of my lunch hour and work really gets in the way of my personal life.