Today is my birthday. I'm 33, and I just had to do math to figure that out for sure.
My gift to myself is a shameless whore-out post with little or no point other than to rack up a lot of comments from people telling me happy birthday.
It occurred to me last night that I've never actually been pregnant on my birthday. In fact, the occasion has usually marked the end of a long year of fruitless trying. I know I've made getting pregnant my official birthday wish at least three or four times, with two of those wishes coming true in just a matter of weeks.
This time, I thought it would be nice to maybe start LOOKING pregnant by my birthday, if that wouldn't be too much trouble for the Fates or Birthday Candle Goblins or whoever is in charge of that sort of thing. Everything else is going so well, with the no-longer-feeling-like-a-walking-migraine-of-hork and feeling the honest-to-God kicking and OH, I DON'T KNOW, the whole fetus-remaining-alive thing and stuff. So I didn't want to press my luck.
I swear I woke up this morning looking like I swallowed an entire tin of Christmas cookies. Which may or may not have actually happened:
It's not nearly so impressive when I stand up. Thus, I believe this is another reason to not deviate from the Birthday Plan of staying in bed and exposing the baby to some enriching literature.
AKA, What to Expect When You're Expecting During the Zombie Apocalypse
(SPOILER ALERT: Lots of canned goods, questionable medical services, speech bubbles full of HUMNGG!, GUB! and GRARR!, plus overall atmosphere of bleakness, doom.)