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Pregnancy has made me right.
Pregnancy has made me right a lot, actually. It makes me right about all sorts of things, like where to put the laundry and what we should do on the weekend and where we should go eat. I am also right about what bedding set to buy, how to treat a cold, which project takes priority over which other project, which projects should be on the list, which wall I want to put which computer on.
Pregnancy has also made me talk a lot.
M is aware of every single time I go to pee, at least when we're not at work. (If I have to go every twenty minutes, then shouldn't he have to at least HEAR about it? It's only fair.) He has not only heard daily or hourly updates on the rib, but he has also lifted me out of bed when I've been unable to get up on my own, and he has rearranged our refrigerator to put everything I need on the top shelf so I won't have to bend over. (That was totally his idea, too.) He knows all about those very intimate details of pregnancy that don't quite make it into print. He gets to hear about how I don't sleep well or that my belly is bumping into things that I don't usually bump into, and he certainly hears updates on indigestion, the status of my digestive system, headaches, lower belly soreness, swollen ankles, face blemishes, abnormal hair growth and how HUNGRY I am. I wouldn't say that I'm complaining all the time. Certainly, some of it comes out in complaint form, but not terribly much more than usual. It's more that our conversations are peppered with pregnancy symptom status reports.
Pregnancy has made me hormonal.
Oh, who am I kidding--this one is really nothing new.
Pregnancy has made me worry about brand new and exciting things.
So far, M has had to convince me that we will not be terrible parents, that we would make it out of the first trimester, that Ducky will not be an ugly baby, that we will both make it out of the hospital alive, that if we don't stick with the cloth diaper plan it will be okay, that he will love me even if my belly button pops out, that nothing terrible will happen to him when Ducky turns two months old--don't ask, that Ducky will either be a jock, or just generally not nerdy enough, that we won't die because I made potato soup tonight using chicken stock from a dented can, that our marriage will still be strong after she gets here and that I don't have [insert random disease here].
In short, I am terribly, terribly easy to live with these days.
And so far, pregnancy has been a whole hell of a lot of fun. (Just ask M! Or, actually, you'd better just take my word for it.)
Pregnancy has made me right a lot, actually. It makes me right about all sorts of things, like where to put the laundry and what we should do on the weekend and where we should go eat. I am also right about what bedding set to buy, how to treat a cold, which project takes priority over which other project, which projects should be on the list, which wall I want to put which computer on.
Pregnancy has also made me talk a lot.
M is aware of every single time I go to pee, at least when we're not at work. (If I have to go every twenty minutes, then shouldn't he have to at least HEAR about it? It's only fair.) He has not only heard daily or hourly updates on the rib, but he has also lifted me out of bed when I've been unable to get up on my own, and he has rearranged our refrigerator to put everything I need on the top shelf so I won't have to bend over. (That was totally his idea, too.) He knows all about those very intimate details of pregnancy that don't quite make it into print. He gets to hear about how I don't sleep well or that my belly is bumping into things that I don't usually bump into, and he certainly hears updates on indigestion, the status of my digestive system, headaches, lower belly soreness, swollen ankles, face blemishes, abnormal hair growth and how HUNGRY I am. I wouldn't say that I'm complaining all the time. Certainly, some of it comes out in complaint form, but not terribly much more than usual. It's more that our conversations are peppered with pregnancy symptom status reports.
Pregnancy has made me hormonal.
Oh, who am I kidding--this one is really nothing new.
Pregnancy has made me worry about brand new and exciting things.
So far, M has had to convince me that we will not be terrible parents, that we would make it out of the first trimester, that Ducky will not be an ugly baby, that we will both make it out of the hospital alive, that if we don't stick with the cloth diaper plan it will be okay, that he will love me even if my belly button pops out, that nothing terrible will happen to him when Ducky turns two months old--don't ask, that Ducky will either be a jock, or just generally not nerdy enough, that we won't die because I made potato soup tonight using chicken stock from a dented can, that our marriage will still be strong after she gets here and that I don't have [insert random disease here].
In short, I am terribly, terribly easy to live with these days.
And so far, pregnancy has been a whole hell of a lot of fun. (Just ask M! Or, actually, you'd better just take my word for it.)
