I feel like I’m still missing some of my lovely bloggy friends since having to revert back to my old blog (booshy.wordpress.com).

I miss you! Where are you? Here’s what happened on my reverted blog today…

For what it’s worth, mentally, I don’t think I’m 100% ready for all of this massive mid-section growth that is currently happening and will continue to happen until February. Then, at the point the sprout is out and enjoying the world sans womb, I will be working like a mad person trying to get my bulbous belly back to better-than-before status.

I’ve always had issues with body image. I never think I’m thin enough, mostly. And I think I take horrid pictures. This is all probably because I’m a girl and for whatever (messed up) reason, society says girls are supposed to be thin and svelte and beautiful and perfect.

And a post-baby body does not a svelte woman make.

So, here I am, 16 weeks knocked up with too many more weeks left to count and a body that has yet to really get “pregnant.” I mean, yes, I’m “pregnant” but obviously, I’ve yet to really *look* the part. I feel it, no doubt, even though I’m quite positive I’d get the evil eye if I up and decided to park in a maternity parking spot. I know I’m not waddle-worthy of that space yet, anyway, but I’m trying to build a case, here, people.

All my life I’ve felt like I’ve been chasing some magical number on the scale. I found out that the weight range for my 5’10 amazon woman height is between 135 – 165 pounds.

What do you think was the first thing I told Tim after learning this bit of knowledge?

“I’m going to weigh between 140 and 145 after the kid pops out. Maybe I’ll go for 135.”

(Obviously, I weighed more than that pre-pregnancy…but still within the range of 135-165)

Tim was all, “You’ll look like an emaciated orphan at 135…and at 140.”

But isn’t that what we’re going for, here? I thought super thin was in!

(Disclaimer: It’s actually not. It’s totally not healthy and the rational part of me completely understands that)

Yet, I still have that weight of 140-145 (maybe 135??) in my brain as a goal for after the baby. AND I have a certain weight I don’t want to surpass during pregnancy. Now, whether I attain that pregnancy weight limit goal or not will depend, mostly, on how much I can resist eating Taco Bell.

What?

IT’S WHAT THE BABY WANTS.

I’m just the vessel, here.

Now, I know you’re all, “Seriously? You’re going here with the fat talk? You think YOU are fat (or, were fat post-pregnancy)? There is something wrong with you. Obviously.”

And to all you nay-sayers, welcome to Team Tim, who says to me allllllllllllllllllllll the time that I’m the only person who thinks I’m fat (Was fat. I, at least, have figured out and completely understand that Pregnancy ? fat. Pregnancy = baby).

Part of me believes him because part of me thinks I’ll still believe I’m fat even *if* I attain whatever magical number I deem “skinny.”

All of this? Probably something that needs to be fixed before I unknowingly start making the little sprout self conscious and fearful of the scale, checking his/her body at every angle to make sure they don’t look poofy.

I don’t need to create an anorexic child. That thought alone scares me into submission with the fat talk.

So, yet another thing for me to try and conquer before I start actually influencing the tiny human being I will be responsible for (*gulp*).

This next part, well……I’m not exactly sure where it falls into the whole being a good role model but, my saving grace (if that’s even an appropriate phrase) for when all baby making is said and done is that Tim has promised me (you so did, honey) that I could get “work” done on an area that ends up saggy or not like it was before.

Namely the boobs and/or the stomach.

That’s like the ace in my pocket. I might binge on Taco Bell and gain 100 pounds and have the flattest, most pancakey boobs ever seen by man, but watch out! I’ll be one hot mamma after I visit Plastics!

Not that I even want to go through that…truthfully…but I like to know it’s there as an option if things get entirely out of control.

Is that shallow or is it normal?

I have no idea.

Dear Lovely Readers…mostly of the feedburner variety…

If you haven’t noticed, I’ve had to move over to my old wordpress site (booshy.wordpress.com) while I try and fix my sad, broken blog. If you try to go to booshy.com, you’ll automatically be redirected (yay!). However, if you’re waiting on an email from feedburner…well…that seems to be a whole different issue.

I’ve set up a new feed for booshy.wordpress.com here booshy subscription if you want to subscribe quick-like to follow the shenanigans. Pretty please?

I apologize for all of the craziness, but on the plus side, I can (and have!) post pictures now…including one of the wee sprout!

Thank you for keeping up with my insane, sometimes…mostly actually…comical life. I appreciate each and every one of you – even if I haven’t told you in awhile.

Happy Friday and have a wonderful weekend!

I feel like I should say something before the weekend comes and goes…Tim and I will be doing something EPIC on Saturday and Sunday…but I can’t really share about that until it happens – just in case it isn’t as EPIC as I think it’ll be.

Anyway, some of you *may* know that I was having baby shower DRAM-A yesterday.  To the point of tears, people. And tears + stress = bad for baby.  I also didn’t sleep well because I kept getting riled up over the whole issue.  Since the DRAM-A circles around one of the topics I tend to steer away from (internal family things), I’ll leave it at this: The DRAM-A is over now, thank goodness, but I’m still a little wounded.  I’ll get over it…but it’s still fresh right now.

A different topic that I’m definitely not shy to talk about is my dad.  I don’t even know if I count him as “family” anymore, as sad as that sounds.  Oh, yesterday was just a day of wonderful news and experiences (read: sarcasm)

Anyway, my mom told me yesterday that my dad found out that I was pregnant.  I didn’t tell him “the news” personally, for right or for wrong – judge me however you will.  He and I do not have a relationship and truthfully, as each day passes, we have less and less of one.  If you don’t know the background, he has screwed me over more times than I thought was possible by a parent.  To name a few recent examples: I found out he defaulted on one of my school loans (in my name) and that lovely present is sitting on my credit report as a major ding (delinquent payments over 120+ days) AND he wiped out one of my savings accounts that his name was on.  The account had been set up when I was a minor, so he was the custodian…and decided he wanted the money, so he took it.  Well, all but FIVE DOLLARS of the money and never mentioned a single thing to me about it.  Kind of like,  ”Oh, she’ll never notice…”

Ass. Wipe.

I’ve been struggling internally and in speaking with Tim on what I want to do about him and the baby.  Either way, he found out through the grapevine that I was pregnant…yet I haven’t heard a peep from him.  No email, nothing.

Honestly, I could care less…but it just goes to show what kind of character he really is.  Or. more accurately, lack of character.

Where I struggle is with this question: Do I want him – this kind of person – around MY CHILD?  I certainly do not want him influencing this child AT ALL.  I don’t want him to impart a single shred of his personality, demeanor, ideals, (lack of) morals, thoughts, mannerisms on MY CHILD.

(I realize it is “our child” but I’m trying to make a point, dear)

So, does he even get the privilege of knowing this baby?

Tim’s devils advocate stance is more for the kid – they have a right to know who their grandparents are.  Which, I agree…but when they’re too young to really understand the dynamics and the danger of my dad trying to influence them?

Too risky.

Regardless, under no circumstance will he ever be allowed alone with this baby.  Never, ever, ever.

And, really, what is worse?  I posed this to Tim.  My dad has this wonderful personality flaw where, when things get exciting or when he’ll look like the “hero, awesome dad,” he’ll come around and be all supportive and helpful and super star parent.

Then…when things get tough or he gets bored or (most importantly) when people stop ogling over all the wonderful things he’s doing, he drops off the planet like he never existed.

So, we let him start a relationship with this kid and then, out of nowhere, he disappears?  How in the hell (sorry…h-e-double-hockey sticks) will the kid take that?  How do you explain that to a young child? “Oh, sorry, dear, your grandfather isn’t really interested anymore and probably never really cared about you in the first place…we’ll be lucky if he sends a card every other year for your birthday.”

So, again, which is worse?  Letting the child KNOW his grandfather…and then watch their heart break when he disappears or tell the child that, basically, he only has one grandfather (Tim’s dad)?  I mean, sure, when the child is old enough to understand, we can explain everything and let them make a decision to make contact with my dad.  Then, again, Tim and I will have to support and comfort our child when they get burned by him (because it’ll happen, make no doubt).  And having to do that…to watch my child get hurt like that…will still be really hard to swallow, but at least they’ll go into it knowing what to expect instead of getting blindsided.

I’m still undecided, even though as each day passes, I’m more and more convinced that I don’t want my dad involved at all.  Ever.  I’ve finally made a clean break from him and I have no intention of fixing it.  I’ve done it one too many times before and the SAME THING HAPPENS EVERY SINLGE TIME.

He’s not interested in being a parent.  He’s interested in what’s good for him and him only.

I’m done trying to come back to him and have a relationship.  He only wants a relationship that benefits him and when it doesn’t, he’s gone.  I’ve touched that stove one too many times. He’s out of chances.  I’m happier without him in my life and I would imagine my child would be, too.

I want no part in his shenanigans.  He can take his “I love God and I’m a fabulous Christian (but I steal money from my children)” high and mighty attitude and shove it so far up a cow’s asshole that it comes out of its mouth as cottage cheese.

Here’s a little progress report on the sprout and I. I’m thinking we’ll do an update every few weeks or so…at least until things start changing more rapidly…then maybe every week? Give you some inside knowledge on how this whole pregnancy thing is going.

How far along? I am “officially” in the second trimester…today!! Happy anniversary to me! Apparently, 12 weeks doesn’t signal the end of the first tri…it’s the END of the 13th week. Food for thought.

Total weight gain/loss: Holding steady at zero. Tim told me this morning, “That means you’re supposed to gain eight pounds in six weeks!” Umm…good luck to me.

Maternity clothes? Thank goodness for summery dresses! Granted, I’m still not really *showing* – and I still fit into my regular clothes (haven’t braved a pair of pants yet, though). However, there is this one dress that apparently makes me look pregnant. Per Tim.

Stretch marks? None…and I’m praying it stays that way. My mom didn’t get any…so that is supposed to be a good sign…so *they* say. I have a fear of stretch marks…

Sleep: It happens…though I no longer can enjoy sleeping through the night. And I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it! I have my needs-to-go-every-two-hours bladder to thank for my lack of quality Z’s – and I LOVE me some sleep.

Best moment this week: Umm…

Movement: Not yet…though Tim read something this morning (or was it last night?) about how what I may mistake as “gas” might actually be the baby doing tumbling exercises in my uterus.

Food cravings: Still no huge cravings…I can eat Tim’s pizza almost every day, though. Yum!

Gender: We won’t know until the end of September…but we have our guess. We should have a gender poll! Who’s in?!

Labor Signs: If I had these, we’re all in big trouble.

Belly Button in or out? Still just as far in as it’s always been. This is one thing I’m curious about – will it pop??

Wedding rings on or off? Definitely on. They’re a little loose anyway, so hopefully I don’t swell up too much later on and have to take them off.

What I miss: Deli sandwiches! OMG if I had a craving, it’d be that. And sleeping through the night (as noted above), being able to run at a faster than snails pace, California rolls…

What I am looking forward to: Finding out if we’re having a girl or boy!

Weekly Wisdom: To anyone who has never been pregnant: round ligament pain is real! And it hurts!

Milestones: I made it through the tumultuous first tri and I’m officially in the second trimester!

I’m a person who, deep down, hates arguing. I’m sure Tim would vehemently disagree, since I’ll go toe to toe with him any day of the week, any time of day – no hesitation.

With anyone else? Family members included?

I clam right up.

After reflecting on why this is…I’m not afraid to lay it all out there with Tim because I KNOW that regardless of the outcome of the argument, he’s still going to love me. He’ll still be my biggest fan and my best friend. He won’t hold a grudge (I don’t think…) and his perception of me will not change.

I’m not saying I don’t think my family will stop loving me. But my whole life I’ve tried to pacify instead of butt heads, so changing that persona when it comes to my actual feelings is hard for me. Really. Hard.

For whatever reason, my entire life has been shrouded around me trying not to upset the apple cart. I’d rather just go along with something – even if I have ZERO desire to do it. I wanted to keep my street cred of, “Oh, Jessica? She’ll go along with it, no worries.” Instead of, “Oh, Jessica? She’s a pain in the asss….cot.”

But…what happens when I REALLY don’t want to do something? What happens if I tell someone that I’m not too keen on their plans? Will they be mad at me? Will their perception of me change? Will they hate me???

All of these things race through my head when I come to a crossroads between what I want versus what another person wants. Part of me wants to be the same old people pleaser and part of me wants to stand up for myself.

The thing is, though, it has been getting harder and harder to pacify the part of me that wants to tell another person how I really feel…even though doing so is almost as hard as just going along with it without saying anything. Those same feelings of, “Will they hate me??” pop up and swirl through my head while the other part of me is like, “This is what you want – so stop being a wimp and stand up for yourself already!”

If I stand back and actually analyze what I’m saying, I’d tell myself that the people who truly care about me will respect me more for being honest than for hiding my true feelings and those who get their panties in a wad probably aren’t worth it in the first place.

I’m not sure if being pregnant (oh, yes, I’m going there) has anything to do with this almost overwhelming desire to speak up instead of shut up. I know that I’m going to have to get over the incessant people pleaser part of me and instead put my strong opinions out there for others to see and understand and respect – especially when it comes to the well being and safety of my child. I know I cannot stand idly by when I’m needed to step in and take charge.

It’s a hard transition for me. I do feel better internally when I actually voice my true feelings, but it’s really difficult to break a 28-year long habit and not ruminate over what someone thinks about me after I tell them how I truly feel instead of copping out and telling them instead what I know they want to hear.

So, how’s your weekend shaping up?  Anything fun planned?

I’m sure you’ve noticed that my blog is still broken…apparently something happened that’s blocking my ability to do anything but type words into a box. Yay.

Anyhow, our weekend? Ehm…varied? We’re running…still in training mode for the half marathon. I’ll probably end up breaking my va-jay-jay again, but at least I’m prepared for it, I guess?

Also – put this down in Things No One Ever Tells You About Pregnancy – I still don’t *look* pregnant, yet, it now feels like my abdominal wall is tearing into pieces, especially if I stretch my arms over my head or elongate my torso in any way. SHOOTING PAINS. Stabby, unfun sensations that actually made me cry out last night because it hurt so much. Without any of this stretching, it almost feels like I spent an entire day – 24 full hours – doing crunches.  Then, if I try to stretch out the “stiffness” it hurts like an SOB. And by the way? I happen to really enjoy a good torso stretch. I have to wait months until I get another satisfying torso stretch. Just FYI.

In addition to the unexpected abdominal pains, I’ve yet to gain a single pound. This shocks me more than it probably should, but I’ve definitely been eating more and the “more” has included lots of high calorie delicious goodness.

Why I even bother, I have no idea, because it doesn’t seem to be helping. One would think that after a dinner consisting of a calzone the size of my face and three mozzarella sticks (OMG…craving…what is with this child and wanting BAD, BAD things?!) and then, the next night, a steak (deck of cards size, but, still), an entire baked potato with cheese, sour cream and salsa, asparagus and then, to follow that, a giant piece of pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream would at least net me half a pound.

No. I LOST half a pound after all of that AND we’ve only run once this week so far.

Granted, I also ate one too many prunes yesterday.  That was an exercise in portion control I’ll probably never forget for the rest of my life.

I think I’ve gone a little too far in the direction of TMI…and I still haven’t even told you about our weekend.

I’m getting there.

So, Saturday, Tim wants to go watch some high school aged chick knock someone out.  No, seriously.  Boxing or something.  Someone that works in his plant is a boxer. Like, a for serious boxer…but he keeps losing so he hasn’t climbed the boxing ladder – however that all works – I know nothing about boxing, but apparently he’s really good…anyway, I guess the place he practices of helps train younger boxers has this chick from another planet who is really good and has been knocking everyone out.  Tim found out she was fighting this weekend and wants to go.  So….that’s where I’ll be spending my Saturday afternoon – watching people beat the hell out of each other for fun and a trophy.  Also: blood. There will probably be blood and I will definitely need a bucket at my feet.  My stomach can barely handle certain smells and blood? No dice. But I’m trying to be a supportive wife…I want everyone to acknowledge my goodwill…EVEN WHEN I’VE GOT THE PREGNANCY QUEASY.

Granted, Sunday really isn’t any better, and I PLANNED IT.  Thing is, there is this Whole Foods that has been open for awhile and they are finally finished putting everything into place.  For months everything kept getting moved around while they “made” the seafood department and then the meat department and then the produce section.  It was like a never-ending work in progress.  I mean, since we’ve been here this store has been “under construction” in some shape or form – and we moved into our house in January.  That’s like, almost eight months of “almost ready.”  I’m guessing they felt bad because to celebrate the store being complete, they offered special “behind the scenes” tours of all of their departments, complete with (and here is where my great idea turns into a poor decision) samples from every department.

Samples.  Of things that make me want to barf, like seafood.

I’m so brilliant sometimes I don’t even know what to do with myself.

We also get a swag bag at the end…and that’s the part I’m most excited about.  Forget the samples.  Give me the swag!

And in-between all of this, I’ll probably be trying to figure out how to cram lots of calories into my face.

Happy weekend, friends!

Because this is just how the universe likes to toy with me…

Last night, Tim had to stop at Office Max on his way home from work. He has this super special pen that can write in red or black ink OR pencil.

It’s magical. Obviously.

Anyway, he apparently ran out of the ink part of the magical pen and needed replacement cartridges. Ergo: Office Max.

Tim calls me on his way home every night, so once he got to the store, we said our goodbyes and off he went.

Twenty minutes later, I get a text message that said, verbatim, “Gonna be late…just witnessed an assault at OfficeMax. Waiting for police….ILU!!! T”

Uhhhhhh….WHAT?!

So I start texting him all, “Are you safe?! What happened?!?”

Because who knows if “waiting for police” means you’re laying on a gurney, blood gushing out of every orifice, the paramedic typing the text based on Tim’s incoherent sign language.

EXACTLY.

Finally, after entirely too long, I get a text back from Tim, saying he’s ok and safe. Turns out, he decided to INTERJECT himself into the altercation (again, verbatim): “I am. Dude went nuts. Knocked over displays and attacked one of the managers. Punched him in the mouth. I tried to escort him out quietly and he almost went…but then started screaming at the staff again. Offered to stay as a witness for police report.”

And what’s an emotional pregnant person to do but immediately overreact and fire off this text, “Um…next time you don’t need to get THAT involved. Don’t want someone going postal on you. Smile and wave.”

In my defense, my response is totally rational AND justified. I mean, the hell? Why are you going to put yourself into a potentially fatal situation – because who knows just how craaaazy someone *really* is – when your wife is PREGNANT WITH YOUR CHILD??????

Tim tried to explain that the dude was old and seemed to have some kind of mental disability (um….) and had a cane…blah blah blah…

First off, haven’t you seen Batman? Hello?? The Penguin totally made a GUN out of his umbrella. Which? Cane-guns are really only one step away and therefore entirely within the realm of possibility.

Second? I don’t give a flying fart in space if the dude is blind, 95 years old, sitting in a wheel chair, has to gum his food and doesn’t have any arms.

Stand down.

Smile and wave.

RUN AWAY.

It’s not just you and me anymore, bucko, and I’ll be damed if you’re going to play hero and then I end up the bawling widow on the news.

::end rant::

I know I shared a few days ago that I was still (GASP!) training for a half marathon at the end of September.  It has been a roller coaster of an experience so far – and I didn’t expect anything that has happened so far.  You’d think with three full marathons under my belt, two of which happened last year, this would be easy peasy.

RIIIIIGHT.

It WAS easy peasy.

Now it’s like trying to go out and knock out 20 miles during every run.

I currently have someone else stealing all of my energy, 24 hours a day, eight days a week (I’m trying to make a point, here).  I knew it was all over one morning when I was trying in vain to keep up with Tim during a three mile run. I was DYING…gasping for air, begging him to slow down, whimpering because my boobs hurt with every bounce – BOUNCE! This is a new thing for me! I have bouncy boobs!

When we finally finished that run, I was all, “huuuuuuuugghhfffppp.”

There was nothing else to say, really.  I had no additional energy or puffs of air to be able to get anything else out.

huuuuuuuugghhfffppp

I went – in the span of maybe a week or two – from running our three mile runs in sub-30 minutes to running the same run, same route, in about 33 to 35 minutes, depending on the day.  And that 33 to 35 minute effort?  HARDER than running the sub-30 minutes.  It takes everything I have just to keep going.  It is frustrating because I’m slow and I’m slowing Tim down…and our half marathon time?

Haha…what time?

I don’t even need to try for a decent time.  I just need to try to finish.  That’s the modified goal, here: Just. Finish.

I am on the hunt for a shirt that says on the back: “I’m not slow. I’m pregnant.”  So, if anyone happens across this kind of awesomeness, let me know!  I plan on wearing said shirt during the half marathon, since Tim and I will probably be bringing up the rear of the pack and will most definitely be passed by the full marathon leaders (the half marathon starts at the same time as the full and is on the same route, only 13.1 miles into the race course, if that makes sense).

If I can’t find that exact shirt, then I’ll have to make one.  That way, people will see me and instead of being all, “Uh…you’re supposed to be running?…” they’ll be like, “Whooohooo! Rock on with your pregnant self!”

I’d prefer the second response.

Now, as for my broken va-jay-jay (I didn’t forget).  This requires a slight lesson in OUCHIE.

Along with all of the other glorious side effects of growing an entire person inside of you, there is this thing called round ligament pain.  Sounds kind of harmless, right?  I mean, it’s not called round ligament rip or tear or dismantling. Anyway, basically what happens is your ligaments that are attached to your uterus (TMI my male readers) are getting thinner and longer by stretching in and out like if you were pulling on a rubber band.

Typically, this pain is usually felt when you make a sudden movement, like getting up from your BFF the couch, and it feels like a knife just stabbed clear through your lower abdomen or your groin.

OR

You can exercise more than you’re supposed to and end up with this round ligament pain in a whole new way.  It’s more like this aching, OMG I can’t walk or move my legs or any part of my lower body in any direction because if I do?

My entire va-jay-jay is going to drop off and roll onto the floor.

That was me on Saturday.  After run/walking 11 miles.

I just knew if I moved an inch I would lose my female bits.  Convinced of it.  This, in and of itself, was traumatizing enough, and poor Tim was having serious issues with his left knee and ankle.  All I could do, even after I was nice enough to get him ice for his ailments (while holding onto and willing my va-jay-jay to stay on my body with one hand), was lie on the floor and moan.

Then, I wobbled upstairs to take a shower and hot damn! The warm water was a miracle!  I felt better!  Hallelujah!

Until everything cooled off.

Later that afternoon while Tim and I were in the car, on the way to somewhere…probably to eat something…we were sitting and a stop light and I decided this was a prime opportunity to just lay it all out there.  So, I leaned my head onto his shoulder and was all, “That run was hard!  It wore me out!  I’m exhausted and I’m in pain…”

During my whining and complaining, Tim is rubbing my head doing the, “Mmhmm…yup…I know…it sure was hard…”  You know, those words your husband says when he’s trying to appease you but isn’t really listening?

…and my va-jay-jay is BROKEN!

Tim snaps his head at attention, looks at me, completely forgetting we’re in a car and he’s supposed to be the responsible driver, doubles over and starts laughing hysterically all, “Wow. Broken, you say? “

Yes. Broken.

***FOOTNOTE*** I’m happy to report that my va-jay-jay is no longer broken and I’m pretty sure the only way I fixed it had nothing to do with duct tape. Just plain old laziness.

If I really decide to be honest, which I guess I have to be now, starting off like that…I really didn’t think the whole bit about pregnant women getting morning sickness, fatigue and food aversions were really all THAT BAD. I mean, I totally get it: Milk it if you’ve got the leverage to back it up, but really? Can it be so terrible that you can’t possibly make yourself do anything more than take a shower on a daily basis?

Um. YES. And by the way? Points to all those who actually manage to shower. Double bonus for getting out of your pajamas.

Apparently, I should have NEVER mocked the Pregnancy Folklore, ever, because it actually isn’t folklore – it’s real, y’all, and now the joke is on me for being all, “Whatever. It really can’t be as debilitating as *they* say.”

From around weeks five to about 6.2, and I’m guesstimating, here, all I could manage to eat was fruit and salad. Anything else – and I mean ANYTHING ELSE made me want to empty the contents of my stomach. Everywhere. Any place. At any time. You’d think that fruit and salad were perfectly fantastic things to crave. No junk food. Nothing unhealthy. It’s perfect!! But rabbit food doesn’t typically contain two very important things that I couldn’t have eaten, anyway, because the thought of either made my throat close up like I’d wrapped a boa constrictor around my neck (lovely imagery…we really should have a discussion on pregnancy dreams…)

I couldn’t handle anything dairy related or meat of any flavor. Both of these are vital to ingest because who wants to be anemic and have your body stripping the calcium from your teeth and bones? Body be damned, it will willingly sacrifice whatever the baby needs, whenever it needs it, regardless of the outcome on you. I’m just a pawn in this whole pregnancy experience.

Then, as it tends to happen with food aversions, I wake up one day out of the clear blue sky all, “Salad? OMG. Noooo. Bad…bad bad idea.” I was now, absolutely, on a strict carb only diet. Very specific carbs. Like bread. And crackers. And macaroni and cheese from the box – it had to be from a box. Oh, and pizza. I don’t know what it is about pizza…but I can eat that *almost* any time. But only certain kinds of pizza…

And yes, do feel bad for me. I’m not afraid to ask for sympathy. Not now. Not with these hormones pumping through my entire body, making me crazy and forgetful and gassy like never before. OMG the gas I can create! It’s incredible. Tim looks at me disgusted all, “Come ON! Seriously right now?”

My response has dwindled down to a sly smile and one word, because there really is nothing else to say: pregnant.

I still, at twelve weeks, struggle with what kind of food to eat. Deciding what I want for dinner? That’s the million dollar question I spend about two hours on every single day because who the hell knows? The other night, it was ramen noodles. Now, I haven’t had ramen noodles since I don’t even remember. I am pretty sure I never ate them in college and I cannot recall a time before that…though i do remember this girl I went to middle school with…every day she’d bring a pack of ramen noodles for lunch. Except, she ate them straight out of the package, breaking off pieces of the noodle brick and sprinkling some of the flavor packet stuff onto each bite…weird and slightly disgusting. Anyway, moving on before I forget, the other night, that’s the only thing I wanted to eat: ramen noodles. Tim had to stop at the store on his way home from work and bring home the solitary food item my stomach decided it would ingest.

His new question for me every afternoon on his way home from work (after the obligatory “how are you feeling?” – he forgot to ask that once and, let’s just say it hasn’t happened again) is, “What am I picking up for dinner?”

More often than not, it seems, he’s having to stop at a fast food place. This, by the way, has been a huge surprise. I never eat fast food. Until now. I’ve eaten more fast food in the last six weeks than I have in years. My three insatiable cravings have all been expertly conquered: A McDonald’s cheeseburger (Holy Batman. The best thing EVER), soft tacos from Taco Bell (Drool) and a Wendy’s hamburger with fries dipped in a frosty (Heaven).

Tangent: My mom craved Wendy’s fries dipped in a frosty when she was pregnant with me. Random?

I can’t explain the desire to eat these (bad, bad!) foods any more than I can my lack of desire for almost any kind of meat, milk (except sometimes in cereal or if I make Ovaltine), salad, most fruit, desserts and whatever else sounds disgusting at the moment. Like eggs. Barf.

All of these food “aversions” (which sounds like a sissy way of saying “picky eater”) led me to lose about five pounds. At my last appointment, the doc was all, “Try to gain some weight.”

Now, wait a second. Let us just pause right here. When has anyone EVER heard their doctor tell them that?! GAIN WEIGHT??

(ignore the obvious stigma, here)

It’s like I got a free pass to eat more food! It’s like someone telling you, no, demanding that you get fatter!

(I know, I know. It’s not “fatter” it’s baby…even though my body *is* going to oh so conveniently pack on about 7 to 10 pounds of pure blubber, you know, just to make sure I have enough energy and calories to give away)

Anyway, I was supposed to gain 8 pounds in the first 20 weeks. According to my OB, I’m in the “25-35 pound” weight class, since my weight and BMI were in the normal range before I became preggers.

So far, I’m at a grand total of zero pounds…with 8 weeks to go and no desire to stuff my face. You do the math.

I think I’ve decided that part of the non-weight gain is related to our half marathon training, especially on the long run days. I end up in such a massive calorie deficit that there really is no way for me to make it up. For instance, this weekend we have an 11 mile run to complete. On average, that’s about 1100 calories I’ll burn just during the run. PLUS the additional 200-300 extra calories I’m supposed to eat because I’m knocked up PLUS the 1500 or so I need just to survive. So, I will start my day at a minimum of minus 1300 calories before I can even think about surviving. But I’ll get into all of that running mumbo jumbo in another post. And no one freak out on me – I was cleared by my OB to continue training.

My point, since I’ve gone way off in the other direction of whatever point I was originally trying to make (pregnancy brain strikes again…what’s the title?…food aversions! – you might think I’m making this, “I don’t…..remember..?..?” up, but I’m totally not. It’s another “who knew?” side effect: forgetfulness to a degree you’d never imagine possible, especially if you’re a Type A like me) is that you really shouldn’t make fun of pregnant people who say they’re nauseous all day and can only eat seven different foods that change on an hourly basis. First of all, “morning sickness” is the most misleading name in the history of naming things. You get “morning sickness” at any time of the day, sometimes all day long, like me. Granted, there was no actual pukage for me, thank goodness, but I felt like I was going to puke all day, every single day, which made eating a beast of a chore. I longed to puke just to feel better. Then, someone at Tim’s work was all, “Tell her that if she pukes once, it’s like opening the flood gates and, unlike when you have the stomach flu, you never feel better afterwards.”

That was enough right there for me to tell my body to keep it together and resist the urge to barf.

And….now I don’t even remember if I ever had a second of all…so I’ll just move on…

Tim quickly learned to only buy me one of whatever I told him I REALLY wanted because almost every single time, after I eat it, I never want it again. I am still, to this day, on the one and done kick. I’ll eat it once (except pizza) and I have zero desire to eat it again – which has made figuring out what I want to eat all that much more challenging. I keep whining to Tim all, “I want to like food again!!!! When will I like food again?!??”

(excuse me while I continue my pity party) I hate food. I eat it because I have to. I don’t *enjoy* food and I haven’t since…too long. It is beyond frustrating.

When will I get to where anything and everything sounds delicious and I want to stuff my face every fifteen minutes? That sounds way more fun. (end whining)

Oh, I have a new home, you know, The Couch. We’re totally BFF, which is why it deserves capitalization. We take naps together and watch lots of terrible TV and play on the internet.
All day…almost every day.

Geez. I disgust myself. This must be my bad karma coming back to kick me in the teeth all, “Told you so.”

COME ON SECOND TRIMESTER! I WANT MY HONEYMOON PHASE!

(two weeks to go…)

(now…what to have for dinner????….what are you having? HALP!)

***Forewarning: If you’re anti-baby, you should probably ignore me for the next seven months***

I’m sure you can guess…or assume…that since my life – and my body – have literally been overtaken by this little sprout, you can follow the logic and know that so, then, will my blog.

And my blog is still broken, so I can’t post any pictures (sad face).  But once I can? Photos of the little sprout for all!

How I became knocked up?…..how it always happens, duh (ear muffs, mom).  No special requirements here.  Just a little sun, water and Mother Nature doing her thing without my explicit permission.

Wait.

Let me explain.

Of course the baby making process all goes “down” the same way every time if you’re doing it a la natural.  Unless you’re still holding out for the stork, in which case I’ll try to reserve judgement.

Anyhow, Tim and I *did* actually have a plan to “stop not trying” (if you follow that logic)

That “plan” was just…how shall we say? Put on the fast tracks.

One (apparently fateful) Friday night back in May, I told Tim over dinner that I was definitely ready to have a child.  ”Definitely ready” as in I’d finally wrapped my brain around the idea.  Not “definitely ready” as in let’s go jump on it!!!

He took the literal meaning. The jump on it one.

Condoms? What condoms? Condoms obviously aren’t necessary when you’re jumping on it (I’ve been off the pill for a few years.  Those little monsters gave me horrid migraines every time I went to the “white pill week.”).

And what’s an inebriated girl to do but oblige?

(I’m well aware that this is all TMI…but so is everything regarding pregnancy…so we’re all just going to get to know ME a little more intimately)

That one weekend in May, by the way, was the only condomless weekend we had because I was all, “No! Wait! I should go to the doctor first!”

So, from that point on, Tim started suiting up again (which was actually completely unnecessary, unbeknownst to anyone) and I scheduled a pre-conception appointment.  I wanted to do this right.  By the book. Cross all my T’s and dot all the whatevers.  Mind my P’s and Q’s and all that jazzy stuff.

About a week before I was *supposed* to begin that lovely monthly cycle, I started complaining that my boobs hurt…which as we girls know is *also* a symptom of our impending monthly visit…or in my case, sometimes every few months visit.  I didn’t think anything of it because I’m a irregular as they come.  I mean, really, what were the odds? I’ll tell you: One in eleventh billion.

Tim’s first response when I was all, “My boobs are SORE!” was “You’re SO pregnant.”

Of course, I was like, “That’s impossible. It was TWO times and I’m irregular.  The odds of that happening are like, impossible.”

(Apparently, nothing is impossible.  Just keep that in mind the next time you think you’re in the “safe zone” – just a little friendly reminder)

So we went about our life as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

We kept running.  I kept going to the gym.  I ate soft cheeses.  I had fish. I DRANK ALCOHOL.

Then, the second to the last week of June, all hell broke loose. Tim left for a business trip.  During that trip, his Uncle Ed passed away and I had to scramble to purchase plane tickets to Rochester (the hellish Delta experience) and get the dogs set up for doggie daycare while we were gone.

All of that transpired in about two days and by the time I was finished with it all, I was exhausted in a way that didn’t even feel normal. Naps were my new BFF and I kept thinking, “Why do I want to sleep so much?….”

(I know.  All completely obvious signs I totally ignored)

Then, the night before Tim flew home from his business trip, I got this random thought, “I probably should take a pregnancy test.”  I have no idea where the idea came from or why it popped into my head at that very moment, but it did, so, I grabbed a test from under the bathroom sink, was about to unwrap it…..and my phone rings.

It’s Tim, calling to say goodnight like he always does when he is away.  For some reason, I didn’t expect him to be calling AT THAT VERY MOMENT, so I sat there, trying to sound normal while sitting on the toilet, test in hand.

Did I tell him what my plans were?  Noooo.  I figured it would be negative anyway, so why tell him now?

So I didn’t.

Once we said our goodbyes, I ripped the test open like it was my job, peed on the little stick and brought it downstairs and put it on the kitchen table while I was busy doing something else that I cannot recall (I blame pregnancy brain – which is totally real and sometimes frustrating because I’ll be right in the middle of a thought and then….poof! It’s gone).

A few minutes later, I walked by the table, picked up the test, thinking it would say, “Not pregnant” like it always had in the past.

I looked down and definitely saw the “pregnant”….but the “not” was missing in front of it.  It just stared up at me all, “PREGNANT. YOU ARE PREGNANT.”

So, what’s a sane person who didn’t expect this result in a million years to do at this very moment? Race out the door to the drug store and buy three additional brands of tests.  JUST TO BE SURE.

As I drove to and from the drug store, I was literally shaking like, “Really? Is this really happening?  I have to wait until TOMORROW to tell anyone????!?!?”  The chick who rang up my three items was all, “Good luck, no matter what you’re hoping for!”

I just smiled at her like, “You have no idea.  This is like the child from Jesus and I’m almost convinced it had to happen through immaculate conception because it was IMPOSSIBLE for this little miracle to occur with all the odds against us.”

After I got back home, I began drinking water like it was going out of style.  Which, by the way, was a terrible idea because I had already been peeing more than I remembered being considered normal and after that massive influx of fluid, I was literally getting up every thirty minutes for the next five hours to pee.

Not. Fun.

BUT, I had plenty of fluid to take those additional tests.  I decided to take two that night and then, just in case this was all a dream, the last one the next morning.

One by one, they all came up with the same result: Knocked up.

By the time I researched Dr. Google and found that a false positive on a pregnancy test is almost unheard of, I decided to figure out a way to break the news to Tim.  And let me tell you – it is never a good idea to try to keep a secret like this from someone for even half of a day.

But somehow, I managed to act all nonchalant whenever I spoke with him on the phone as he made his way from Texas back to Colorado, even while I was driving to the bookstore to pick up part of his surprise, chatting with him like it was just another typical day.

When he FINALLY made it home, I was shaking, again.  Tim has wanted children longer than me, obviously with the whole 13-year age gap, and this bit of news has been a LONG TIME COMING.  As soon as his car pulled in the garage, I swung open the door with a goofy grin on my face, I’m sure.  I had his surprise hidden behind my back and the first thing I blurted out?

“You’re home early! I have a surprise for you!”

Way to be slick there, Jessica….

However, Tim didn’t think anything of what I said.  He apparently thought that because he was home early, I didn’t have time to finish his surprise and therefore, it wouldn’t be 100% complete when I gave it to him.

I could barely contain myself, telling him to hurry and making him drop his bags at the door.  He wasn’t allowed to do anything unless it involved me giving him the surprise.

I told him to close his eyes and hold out his hands.  He did.

Then, I placed a book of baby names with three of my pregnant tests taped to the front.

(this is where a picture opportunity would be perfect, but, sadly, as we all know, blog = broken)

He opened his eyes and almost immediately knew what I had handed him.  We hugged.  I cried (pregnancy hormones…I never cry).  And then we sat down and were all, “HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE?”

I still don’t know the answer.

I do know, though, that I had to call the doctor that day and leave a message all, “Ummm…so about that pre-conception appointment? I need to change that to a…the one where I’m pregnant. Yah. One of those.  Surprise?!“