So I have only thrown up twice this week.
Quick! Let me know you've read that sentence (use some hand signals, or just cough kind of pointedly) so I can delete it. My blog has become a passive aggressive ASSHOLE, and has somehow artificial-intelligenced itself into my digestive tract so anytime I mention feeling relatively okay it decides to punish me.
(Shit. I bet it's reading that paragraph right now. Quick! Pretend we're talking about something else.)
...and then I was like, OH MY GOD, there's a llama in the backyard! But it was only the hydrangea.
Dog butts: for when you cannot think of an appropriate segue.
So I'm somewhere in the vicinity of 11 weeks, and starting to feel like I might just make it out of this thing alive. Last week was definitely the worst -- I threw up pretty much every night, was unable to eat dinner, and then woke up every morning with crashing blood sugar and ravenous hunger, but was always faced with three smaller beings who insist on being fed first, even though SOME OF THEM eat food that smells like rancid-cold-cut-and-mackerel salad, I AM NOT SAYING WHO.
Whut? Can't I horf cat fud in peace over here?
(By the way, since I am a crumbly emotional mess these days, I feel the need to counter all my dogthing-mocking with a declaration of love for the hamsterdog. She may need a diet, probably a bath and definitely a less disproportionate headsize-to-body ratio, and my GOD, must she have an aneurysm EVERY time the mailman walks by, but she really DOES get plenty of love and affection and clearly, way too much ham.)
My next OB appointment isn't for another week and a half, which means the reassurance from my last visit is starting to wear off and I'm fighting the urge to call and invent a pressing reason why I need an ultrasound RIGHT NOW, since "I only threw up twice this week!" or "I dunno, I think I feel a little less gassy" won't really cut it.
I rented a doppler last time, and ended up accidentally keeping it (and paying monthly rent on it) for close to 18 months, and then stupidly sent it back when I was one damn payment away from owning the damn thing outright. (Every once in awhile, though, I get a $10 check from them, presumably from people who stumble upon the referral number I posted ages ago. So I'll probably break even in about 23 years, provided I keep my Google Page Rank up.)
Needless to say, I am not allowed to rent another doppler ever.
Oh, and about this. I still don't know. Your comments certainly got me jazzed for the idea of a big birthday reveal moment, but then a minute later I get distracted by something and change my mind. Jason is firmly in the find-out camp, but is willing to go along with whatever I ultimately decide, probably because he KNOWS I won't really be able to hold out and will eventually cave, so it's safe to indulge me for now. So...realistically, I'm guessing we'll find out, unless the baby is modest and keeps his legs crossed for the next few ultrasounds.
(Yeah, I said his. In a way, I think the whole issue is moot, because I'm fairly sure it's another boy.)
Still fairly sure it's a Wonderpet.
The belly at dawn, as compared to the belly at night, with a day's worth of bloat. Ah, dignity. I must have left it in my other pants. The ones I can't button, no matter what time of day it is. Stupid pants.