A lack of updates should allude that there has been a lack of time. Let me help you interpret this a bit more effectively: Lack of energy. ENERGY, little steeglette. Good heavens. I believe a hibernating sloth at nap time watching Ross the Painting guy on PBS has a larger capacity of stamina than this round woman (aka, your momma) does.
So, I’ve been enlightened recently that your daddy-O and my current habits are in for a quote-rude-awakening come D-day.
This little piggy went to the market: You see…today, I went grocery shopping – the first time in almost 4wks. We have found a way to eat, no worries…trust me. I can find food faster than a pre-pubescent girl finds teen spirit. Apparently, we’ll have to make more regular stops at the so-called market once you’re air-breathing.
Wash me white as oh-no: Currently, the Stegall’s laundry day is every 7 days. We predict this by the amount of undershirts your Daddy-O has left and our rather glorious fondness and affinity for clean-sheet day. Oh how we love everything encapsulated by the beautiful effervescence of clean-sheet day.
Open eyes on Saturday morning is equivalent to pure blasphemy: I do not believe I need to embellish. Child, we will need to work very hard at teaching you the importance of Saturday-Sleep-In-Day. This is a weekly holiday we as a family MUST observe.
Otherwise, we’ll be just fine. Just fine. No apprehensively shaken voice here. We’ll be fine.
So, week 25 holds the following numbers for our time of growth:
- Baking time: 25wks
- cravings: cake. Just ask your auntie tammy…this is fierce, steeglette. Banana bread w/ pineapple is my healthy concept of cake. And in that instance, this is not a perversion, but it is a rather tasty embellishment.
- aversions: onions. this has not changed from prior weeks. I will stand by this quite strongly.
- added inches to the precious waistline: 13″ – and that, my little lamb, is the devil’s number.
- Lessons learned: rib pain is not synonymous to hunger pangs for bbq. no. it is not.
I’m tired [shocker]. So, this here is the best you’re gonna get. Take it or leave it, but it’s not a Letterman top 10 for certain…
- Baking time: 22wks
- cravings: nearly gone…heartburn has replaced cravings – no complaints here, my beee-hind is quite appreciative.
- aversions: onions. on my sandwich OR yours.
Pregnancy PSA: Secondary bad breath can kill, people.
- added inches to the precious waistline: 11.5″ – how does that even happen?
- Lessons learned: registering is a necessary evil
hello steeglette – alrighty, so honesty prevails, and this momma says that these 3D ultrasounds still freak me out quite a bit. You still have the turtle-without-a-shell manifestation about you. Nevertheless, we love you, our sleepy little alien!
we also got a more accurate date of appearance…looks like you have yet another week added to your percolation time. You’re 22wks and due to be air breathing June 5…this is per the specialists, and since they’re special, I believe them.
I have had many-a-wonderful understanding persons grace my ever-growing presence. Although, little one, I must share that there is one individual in particular who has chosen to give me a piece of her mind with nearly every single encounter
& for your bathroom reading pleasure…
You should stop wearing heels. You’re killing your back.
Don’t drink that tap water. Get yourself a filter for your office.
That microwave is on. Go into another room; it will hurt the baby.
You should really lay off the potatoes.
So, little steeglette, according to aforementioned geyser of unsolicited knowledge, your momma is going to be quite the fatty w/ a broken back, and you, sadly, are a child-turned-Cyclopes, who has a tail and antlers.
Thank you. And good night.
Amidst the mornings when I can afford to sleep in and can’t effectively do so, occasionally appear moments of clarity scattered rather haphazardly among this 9+month daze of confusion, aka “pregnancy brain”…
While I was pondering what bunghole chose to invent stairs, I realized that Steeglette knows no other world outside of its watery haven inside this bloated body. It doesn’t know about weather, cars, faces, or the overly publicized upcoming royal nuptials. But, much like one of my favorite theoretical masterpieces, E.A Abbott’s Flatland (and not too dissimilar from my even-more-favorite Dr. Seuss work, Horton Hears a Who), I know this world is here, awaiting the fine day when Steeglette leaves the saturated haven of my stomach, squeezes through the traumatic portal, and becomes one among all of us air-breathing mammals.
Yep, steeglette. I did.
I remember how every-single-time I heard a friend was pregnant, I’d have to fulfill that guilty pleasure and run to see the most recent picture – ‘twas merely attempting to fill that insatiable curiosity of how many inches could fit on one little frame. Well, this not-so-little frame has lost its last pitifully dangling bit of shame this very week.
So here it is – I’ve given up and given into the pressure to take a bikini pic commemorating our half-way point. Yep, it’s the same bikini I’d sport when I actually could find my collarbones and when my belly button had an actual form and didn’t look anything akin to the valley of the shadow of death.
So, here you have it, world. And all I have to say is, there better be a baby in there…
- Baking time: 20wks
- cravings: most definitely has become what I have deemed a “suggestive appetite”…you suggest it, and “oooh, that sounds good”.
- aversions: waking up. don’t try it. it hurts.
- added inches to the precious waistline: 10″…no additional commentary necessary.
- Lessons learned: everything requires a grunt. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth a grunt.
So congratulations…while i’m half-naked, you’re half-baked, our steeglette!!!!
I’m in. I’m finally in the club, the group, the camaraderie of waddling women!
While waiting for our table at a local eatery, she walked by – another chic with her future kiddo happily lingering inside its watery haven, pressing on her bladder, kicking her kidneys, while carousing along with the dizzy spells and mother-load of cravings– and then she smiled and did “the nod”. You know, the nod bikers have when they breeze past each other on the open road, recognizing that they’re of a relatively small population in this world, who find the words “crotch-rocket” both offensive and invigorating, and they know they need to stick together. Yep. It was that nod.
I, of course, smiled and nodded back with the rush of pride making me feel as though I should stand taller and stick out my already quite rotund protrusion even farther.
So step aside, create a path, I’m in the family way, and I’ve officially made it!