Mindless Meanderings of Schroedawg

Brad and I got into an argument on Saturday morning, as I huffed and puffed to try to reason with him through my rising blood pressure and anger, that making a baby is a lot harder than he would ever know, and how I was ready for her to be out, and he, as nonchalantly as a male reacts, argued, “It’s only nine months.” Seriously? That’s the basis for your argument? Not that I am ranting about the joyous miracle of creating life or the new adventure of mommy-hood, but is he that clueless? Does he not see the transformation that has taken course over the last 9 months and the frustrations it has caused me to no avail? He even rubbed my belly as if I were Buddha about to bestow him luck, and stated, “That thing is the size of a basketball now! Wow!” Great. Thanks for that. The transition into pregnancy is, how do I put this…overwhelming? Again, let me reiterate that I have had a very, smooth pregnancy. I haven’t been bombarded with the urge to hurl at the smell of foods or lack thereof.

 On July 4th, we went to a BBQ, where we were the youngest in attendance. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to pig out and delve into the awesome display of potatoes salads, baked beans, and other scrumptious foods, I settled for just a hamburger, some veggies sans the dip, and my very own salsa and whole grain chips. As we literally baked in the sun, (my lovely legs got more burned than anticipated and I was smart to cover up my arms, shoulders, and chest), the ladies of the group kept asking about the baby and when she was due, etc. It hit me, then, that we were 8 weeks away and I said, "8 months." "Really? You're 8 months pregnant? You're so small!" was their response. I had to double take myself in the mirror a few times after this response when I stole away to the bathroom, but I think I'm huge.  In pondering these comments, I asked my doctor if I was progressing fine. She said I was measuring perfect and my weight is right on track, having only