Okay enough with that. Onto the questions.
How many months are you?
Months? Months? Pregnant women don't know how to count in months. We count in weeks. Actually, to call it counting is a bit of an exaggeration. It's more like remembering the number on the top of the Babycenter weekly email reading something like "Your Pregnancy: 11 weeks."
So that's the answer. 11 weeks tomorrow. I'm officially due May 5 which is my grandmother's birthday. I'm only worried about having two Tauruses in the house. Eek.
Did you just find out?
Hell no. In fact, it was the day we left for a week in Maine, about five minutes after I posted this totally unrelated thing. My bags were packed, and I peed on a stick as we were walking out the door. Nate asked whether I was sure I didn't want to wait to know until after the trip so I could "enjoy myself." But since not knowing about a pregnancy doesn't make one any less pregnant, pee stick it was.
We hugged. We cried. And then I spent the rest of the car ride slackjawed and freaking out entirely, jotting down insane panicky journal entries that I'll post at a later date.
Why didn't you tell me sooner? I thought you were my friend!
I cannot keep a secret to save my life. Other people's secrets, no problem. But my own? Pffffft. Not a chance. It's not a coincidence that a big yapper also keeps a blog. So you can blame Nate for this one; it was his insistence that I hold off. He said, "I just think we should tell everyone in our lives first and make sure everything's okay before you go posting it in a public forum where it can be read by guys in Thailand googling for photos of moms doing stuff with their sons." So I figured, what the heck. More than likely the kid is his, so I may as well give him some say in the matter.
I'm relieved to finally be able to come out with this. To commiserate with all the other preggos out there in blog land. Hey, you just puked? I just puked too! No way, I'm ALSO planning on firebombing the home of the designer who brought back skinny jeans this fall! Maybe we can do it together, and afterwards we'll drink some sparkling cider and pop some ginger pills.
How did you know?
It wasn't the boobs, it was the sex dreams. The crazy, vivid sex dreams. As I recall there was Bill Clinton, Bobby Flay, Jon Stewart, several ex boyfriends (although not together. Ew.) a guy wearing a Stormtrooper mask, and Jennster.
Are you still moving to LA?
Yes. I mean, probably. No, yes. Definitely. I think. Maybe.
Is this the thing that you were stressed about a couple weeks ago?
Yes and no. Let's save that for next week.
Are those really your boobs?
Yes, and they are indeed bigger than they were before, Mir, meaning I've gone from a 34DD to a 34OhMyF*kingGodPutThoseThingsAwayYou'reScaringTheChildren.
On the positive side, they don't hurt a bit. I think they're just so stretched out from the first pregnancy, that I've lost all sensation entirely. It's like, go ahead and have your way with them, Nate. I'll just be here doing the crossword puzzle.
How are you feeling?
Pukey, thanks. How are you?
Did you really get your OB to give you the thumbs up while you were lying on the table?
Not only that, I gave her my blog address so she could see the picture online. Even big fancy New York City obstetricians cannot resist the allure of 15 minutes of blog fame.
Does this mean you're now going to be called Mom-201?
I have not graduated, let me be clear about that. I definitely still feel like a Freshman, only now taking an overload of courses. No more keggers for me on Saturday nights.