Spent most of last night research breast pumps and trying not to laugh too hard at this video. I know. I’m eight years old. But seriously, it had that SNL shorts quality to it (I’m thinking “Mom Jeans” or “Annuale“).
And today I’ve scheduled a February consult with a pediatrician. And I wrote our Bradley instructor to make sure we’re still on. And looming over all this is the “so when are you going to start maternity leave” question, which is currently complicated due to Reasons, and a ranty ranting post all in and of itself but let’s not turn this into a pretzel, shall we?
Last week marked the week that I stopped being able to eat normal-like, what I’m referring to as the “Baby Lap-Band”. I’ve basically gone from a 13-gallon tank to more like 7- or 8-, and if I go over I feel gross and bloated and gasoline spills out of my mouth. Something like that.
I also realized I’m going to be wearing the same. six. shirts. for the next. three. months. And while that’s an incredibly minor complaint, I still may wind up going out and buying new shirts because otherwise I might go slightly insane…r.
Sleep’s still good, though half the time I wake up with no covers on. This is a reversal of thermal fortune; normally I’m the one burrowing into Mike for LIFEGIVING HEAT and now it’s more often him clinging to me. The other morning he wrapped around me like a squid and whispered, “Warrrrrm so warrrrrm.” and I had to make sure he wasn’t one of the undead or a wayward wendigo. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t.
Oh, and the wrist brace is working. It’s not what I’d call perfect, but I haven’t woken up with a frozen hand since I started using it, and that’s a win. Bonus effect: it gives people a safe way to ask me what’s up without out and out asking ARE YOU PREGNANT? Because I’m pretty sure some people are still weighing the question. I mean, the holidays did just go by and I am known to be fond of cookies.