25 Weeks

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Baby is:

  • 25 weeks and about the size of an eggplant.  The vegetable is disgusting.
  • Not disgusting
  • Well, maybe a little bit.  He’s drinking in amniotic fluid, peeing it out, and then drinking it back in.  He’s also breathing it in.  I’m not sure how nature planned that one to work out, but good for nature for not killing us all.

I am:

  • Tired. Last night my uterus hosted an after hours dance party from 4-8am.  It was all fun and games until the club owner got mad, but lack of sleep will do that to a hormonal Mom in the middle of the night.  So don’t poke the bear today.
  • Otherwise feeling pretty great.  I grunt when I try to get off of the floor or out of bed, but I’m still able to do them on my own and that’s the important part.

Oh, the memories:

  • My wedding ring didn’t fit today.
  • In the middle of the dance party, the DJ had a slight pause to pop more Tums.  Who doesn’t enjoy the chalky taste of Tums in the middle of the night?  This girl.

What the hell:

  • My son better be born with flowing locks like Fabio.  I just finished off my big bottle of Tums and found it more cost effective to purchase a pallet from Costco.  Michigan’s supply of Tums is now being stored in my bathroom cabinet until on or before July 29th.

My Mom comes tomorrow and my need to nest is greater than my need to make sure she enjoys her trip.  I’ve planned her to do list practically down to the minute and then accomplished most of it myself.  She’s dangerously close to losing her mattress to the house 2 year old, who is dangerously close to losing his mattress to the baby who is in my belly not sleeping.  Angel convinced me to wait to assemble the crib and start setting up the room until after she leaves so if you’re reading this Mom: you can thank him for not sleeping on a futon this weekend, but I can’t promise that you won’t be sleeping on one by the end of the weekend.

Must.  Nest.  Now.  My house has been cleaned and the laundry has been washed and put away and I feel like I’m living in a dirt pile of laundry and housework.  The stress of it makes me want to vomit into my Pinterest-worthy nursery crafts.

I have 14 weeks left, which is 3 months.  ONLY 3 MONTHS.  I’m 6 months into growing a tiny human (who still doesn’t have a name, room, or understanding big brother).  I’m pretty sure that by this point with Lucas I was taking naps in the perfectly assembled nursery staring at piles of clean baby clothes.  Right now I’m just hoping that the baby stuff we do have hasn’t been lost to the mice in the basement last winter.  I wouldn’t know because I haven’t gone down to touch a single box, I’m just trusting that I washed it all appropriately and stored it in water-tight containers 6 inches off of the ground and away from the snow-melt flooded corner.  I know 90% of this to not be true.

I’ve kept up with the gym.  I go to water aerobics and yoga each once a week and then spend an hour walking around the track twice a week.  I feel like a super hero until I see my reflection in the glass and am reminded that I’m a pregnant super hero who is really tired and maybe wobbling a little bit.  I’m craving everything sugar and refuse to gain 600 pounds, let that be my motivation to get off of the couch and trade my toddler in for an hour of gym shoes.

I have a crazy busy day tomorrow that starts with the lovely glucose tolerance test but ends with picking up my Mama from the airport.  I think I have a yoga class, play date, and (hopefully) nap to fit into the middle somewhere.  But if my pregnancy brain serves me correctly, I felt like absolute poop following the epic sugar crash from my test with Lucas.  So chances are I’ll finish the test, vomit, feel like passing out, and then eventually settle for laying on the couch a little green around the gills having not accomplished a single thing.

I’ve eaten a box and a half of macaroni and cheese while I wrote this, and am going to spend the rest of my evening wondering why I thought that was a good idea.  Enjoy your evening, everyone!

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