I have had just one too many comments today about how fast I’m putting on weight and MY, I sure hope you are only eating for ONE, and YOU SHOULDN’T BE SHOWING SO EARLY, YOU FAT FAT FATTIE.
FucketyfucketyfucketyfuckFUCKETYFUCKETYFUCK! I don’t need this!!!
Hoo boy.
What my friend said to me at lunch today after seeing me for the first time in a month:
“Oh my God – you’re ALREADY WADDLING.”
Greaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.
Curling up on the floor and moaning softly can be fun sometimes. Also, Mike Jones is right — it IS kind of nice on the rug underneath the kitchen table.
(Can you tell I am NOT HAVING A FUN TIME right now??)
1. Looking at a computer screen.
2. Listening to the radio.
3. Sitting in a chair.
Crappy picture, but I’m sure you get the idea.
WHAT THE FECK, Thriller Baby??? I’m seven weeks, five days today – not six months!! Whyfor are you making your mama disclose her knockedupedness before she is even out of the first trimester? She may wish to be silent, but the BELLY TELLS ALL.
Hrmpfh.
Matt: “I’m going to reorganize the dog’s toy bin. It’s a mess and I hate it.”
Me: “Okay.”
(Five minutes later)
Matt: “Okay! So lookhere — I moved all of Bones’s chew bones into this box, and the balls into this bag –”
Me (spotting the plastic goody bag, full of treats and tchotkes for first time mommies, that I had been given when I bought my Preggie Pops at Motherhood Maternity): “But – NO! That’s my Motherhood bag!!! You can’t use that for the dog!!”
Matt: “Are — are you serious?”
Me: (Feeling weirdly emotional) “I’m — I’m not sure. Maybe I’m 30% serious?”
Matt: “Baby. It’s a PLASTIC BAG. All the stuff that was in it is on the kitchen table.”
Me: (Tears rapidly begin welling up) “But it’s – it’s my special motherhood bag. It’s not for dogs!”
Matt: “Oh my God. You’re crying.”
Me: “Oh my God! I AM!! I can’t believe I’m crying over a plastic bag. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. I can’t believe I’m crying! I mean, my feelings are seriously hurt here. But this is insane!!!”
Matt: ” . . . . . . . “
Me: (Burying head under pillow so as to cry in private.)
Matt: (Heads into kitchen, returning moments later) “Here. Will this make you feel better?”
(He hands me a baby bottle that was a free sample in the goody bag.)
Me: “Oh man. Yeah, I think it does, actually.”
(Proceeds to snuggle with baby bottle for the rest of the night.)
Why do you make me so sick? Do you hate me? Are you already expressing your dissatisfaction with your Mama? Isn’t it a little early for rebellion against me?
I love you, but I am TOTALLY going to hold this over your head someday.
(blerg.)
We saw AND HEARD the heartbeat today!!!!!!
thumpathumpathumpathumpathumpa!
Thriller Baby FTW!!!!!!
The Bebe has totally commandeered the radio in my car. Every day during my commute, the Bebe MAKES me play “Thriller” and “Billie Jean,”* change the words to “and it’s a BABY! THRILLER BAAAAAABY! Baby! Thriller! Baby! ToNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!,” do a little wiggle and rub my belly.
(Matt wants me to stop playing Michael Jackson and maybe switch to the theme to “Walker, Texas Ranger,” but I figure that the Baby (Thriller! Baby!) obviously has good taste in hooks and should be allowed to indulge it.)
Speaking of commutes, I feel pretty good these days if I have accomplished both of the following by the time I roll into the office:
1. Showered.
2. Dressed myself in something other than a jogging bra and yoga pants.
Hcg for yesterday came back — 38,272. Woot!
Six weeks, six days!!!
* The Bebe turns up its nose at “Beat It.”
