irrational thoughts of a preggo.

Let's just get this out of the way:  I despise the word preggo.  I'm carrying a child.  A life.  I am not a jar of pasta sauce.

May 13th - the first day since February that I have felt good.  Mark this down, because I actually wondered if I'd ever live to see the day.

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No worries, it was a false alarm and I haven't felt anywhere close to that good since.  This kid in here?  Has mastered the prenatal shenanigans.  I think that means I'm owed a lifetime of cuteness and sweet as pie-ness.

You guys.  I am like reaching full-blown psycho level.  This laying in bed, the heaving, the inexplicable excuse for enough boobage for 18 people.  I can feeeeel my brain cell population depleting.  My exciting nights have become showers, Dancing with the Stars (obsessed!  Don't know where I have been for the last umpteen seasons), and ordering pretty fabric for my borderline-hoarder stash of fabric.  Just in case I ever decide to start sewing again.

Yesterday I flew into a mini hormonal rage and decided some smaller, fitter, unpregnant person that would actually wear my clothing should have them.  A goodwill trip is in my future.

My house is in a sad state of affairs.  Several weeks ago, Jimmy wore a proud grin and told me that he had dusted everything.  Bless his heart.  I didn't have the heart to tell him he should have already done that 13 times at this point.

But seriously.  I'm turning him into an amazing house wife.  The other day - the day I felt good (are you realizing how depressing that sounds?  THE DAY.  THE ONE.)  I went with my friend Erin to see a movie.  As I left, Jimmy and the girls were baking cupcakes.  First you should know, Jimmy has just recently started baking.  Second, this recipe they used called for self-rising flour, so he decided to make his own.

I get home, and the bumblebee cupcakes were swayback bumblebees.  Looked like they placed golfballs on the tops as they were fresh out of the oven.

So, he isn't a master baker yet.  But he is really good at bedtime routines, and keeping the house in some semblance of an order.  And I really am thankful.  It appears as if Eisley does really messy things only when Jimmy is out of the house.  Like that time she decided to do a paraffin dip in my tartlet warmer.

Me?  Well, I'll count growing a human as a talent.  And also, eating in bed. Laying down.  And I must get the award for the most random and disturbing stream of thoughts at 3 am.  I'm also really good at rootbeer floats, gaining weight while throwing up, and pregnancy brain.  Practically a professional, actually.

the good day.

(16 weeks)

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163 days in case the rest of you are as desperate for the finish line as I am.

(and in the interest of full disclosure: I know the rewards are far greater than the complaints.  I am blessed to carry life again.  As a sweet (and hilarious) friend of mine told me: "when you can't wine, wine, wine, then whine is the next best thing."  I'm getting really good at it.