E, Brutus, tiny E and I are all finally home after many, many long hours in the car and I have no plans to take my pajamas off ever again. I suppose eventually I’ll have to go out for milk or juice or something, but I refuse to shop at stores that frown on flannel pants. I frown on your ridiculously high expectations for pregnant women! You try getting your jeans on without falling over while you have three bowling balls strapped to your front. It is really hard.

E’s side of the family had a baby shower for me the day after Christmas so I now have an entire baby wardrobe complete with tiny socks, shoes and hats. I cannot stop staring at the titty bitty clothes and thinking what a BAD IDEA it is to put me in charge of something that small. I can’t even keep track of my digital camera.

In other news, either I’ve actually lost weight, my in-law’s house is on some sort of magnetic field that causes scales to register 5 pounds less or I’ve discovered an amazing Christmas-cookie-and-pie diet. I’m hoping it’s the third one, because I could really use another source of income right now. My baby might not end up naked but he still doesn’t have any sheets. Eh, I don’t think a lack of sheets ruins childhood. I’ll read this book I got for Christmas to make sure.

Me: You know, once this baby comes out I’m going to kind of miss feeling him move around in there.
E: Well I could always kick you in the stomach at random intervals if that would help.

(Cuddling on the couch)
E: Hey, is that a stretch mark?
Me: WHAT? WHERE?!
E: Yeah, there’s a whole bunch of them. One…two…three…four…

For the record, they were marks from my pants, not stretch marks.

Tomorrow we’re off to visit first my family and then E’s for Christmas. I’ll be back just in time to not get drunk for New Years Eve.

(during an argument)

E: You know, it’s a SCIENTIFIC FACT that your brain shrinks 20% during pregnancy.
Me: So?
E: So it’s not your fault you’re being retarded. It’s just science.

No seriously, don’t click on this link. I’m warning you, the headline is “Colorado Doctor Finds Foot in Newborn’s Brain”. Whatever you do, DON’T LOOK AT THE PICTURE.

I totally knew you’d look. Now I’m off to have nightmares about giving birth to a baby with a foot-tumor.

I had a quick doctor’s appointment today, where I was declared one of the practice’s “healthiest patients” even if I am a fat fat fatty. 5 more pounds in the last month, although the doctor actually said “Wait, is this right?” when she saw my numbers. I wanted to explain that I totally just weigh more than most people and as long as my size 10 maternity jeans still fit I DO NOT CARE if your scale says 200 lbs on it. THAT’S RIGHT PEOPLE. 200 pounds. And every pound of me and my baby has excellent blood pressure, no indications of gestational diabetes, and measures right on track for 25 weeks.

In three weeks I take my glucose level test – I’ve heard really bad things about the crap they make you drink so I’m not looking forward to it – a bunch of STD tests and another Rhogam shot to prepare me in case I go into labor. And then it’s appointments every 2 weeks until I pop this thing out. I suppose I can no longer avoid the fact that it’s gonna happen, and science probably won’t figure out that totally pain-free teleportation delivery before then.