Clearly, I’m knocked up.
Come on. You can’t write about beer every single day for three years and then just stop without arousing at least a little suspicion.
And if you’re still wondering if this is a joke:
That was also the last time I wore skinny jeans. Forever.
I’ve been dodging questions because I didn’t want to drop the bomb until we knew something was actually in there (and were reasonably sure it was going to stick around for a while). The last thing I wanted to do was write a blog post called “I’m pregnant!” followed by a blog post called “Uhhhh…just kidding.”
And really? Neither my husband nor I felt any uncontrollable urge to go shouting it from the rooftops.
Don’t get me wrong: we’re very excited and proud and pretty much walking around like our shit doesn’t stink, but as far as proclaiming my pregnantness to the whole internet? Feh, as AR would say. (And if you’re asking why now?, I just finally ran out of stuff to write about.)
But it’s real: there is an actual human(ish) baby growing inside of me. (Everyone knows it’s not a REAL baby until the third trimester.)
Okay, so, some details:
1. It didn’t take long. We started trying (PICTURE IT) in March, and guess what: March’s egg came sliding down the tube (probably the left one, knowing me), and that was the lucky egg. Boom. One and done.
Now, I’m not one to tie all my self-worth into my ability to bear children, but if I were, I think this would seal my fate as the baddest ass chick on the planet. Neener neener.
2. I’m still a runner…ish. For a while there (weeks 9-10, roughly), I was in a daze. I was tired all the time, but I couldn’t sleep. I was queasy. I cried. I cursed a lot. I skipped the half marathon. Skipped TFN4. Felt very sorry for myself. (Even sorrier for my husband.)
But I’m better now (nearing the end of week 12) and I’m running three days a week. Slowly. But running.
I know that eventually I will be too heavy, and my fetus-baby and gigantic boobs will be bouncing around too much to run, but for now, I am disco in two sports bras and Size XL compression socks.
3. I have been extremely lucky to have had very little sickness. I felt pretty icknast for a while, but compared to some of the horror stories I’ve heard, it’s been tame. I’ve always had an iron stomach, and remember how earlier we talked about my badassery? So there’s that.
4. So, what does this mean for Cheaper Than Therapy?
Does it really matter?
I quit the boozin’ in early March, my only solace being the bottle of wine I was going to KILL as soon as the bitch came calling.
Of course, that never happened.
I think I’m funny without the booze (although some would argue I wasn’t funny to begin with), but as a contingency, my husband has graciously offered to drink beer for me and then make shitty commentary about it (I know, he is such a trooper), so there may be a little bit of that to mix things up every now and then.
Actually, what am I worried about? I’m probably more tolerable when you’re drinking.
One more thing: there will be no bare belly photos (sorry, pregnancy fetishists). No cutesy mommy talk. No talk about how I feel a magical sparkly blessing inside of me. And definitely no talk about how my weight gain is fascinating.
Okay, have at it.