It was one year ago this past weekend while we were visiting the same relatives up in Massachusetts that I turned to my husband and said these loving words: “I feel like crap and I’m like 85% sure I’m pregnant so you better start being nicer to me.” Since then, I’ve thought about babies at least once an hour (8,760 times), said the word boobs on average once a day (365 times), and worried about something baby-related every minute (525,6oo times – ha, I didn’t even use a calculator for that one).
I’d say besides suffering from a severe case of baby-obsession, my life is not as different as I would have thought. Just fuller and a little smellier. I’m also less lazy, more patient, less judgemental, more empathetic and generally healthier if a little fatter. So I think that, yes, I DO recommend this baby thing. Now excuse me, my baby is crying again and has pooped through his pants, the dog just chewed up a tiny pair of socks, I haven’t eaten anything besides a handful of trailmix in 20 hours, my nipples are still burning and I smell like spoiled milk.