Priorities

So many things become unimportant once you have a child.

First and foremost, my appearance. I no longer give a damn about what I look like. Hell, who am I kidding? I didn't really before Weston, but now it's getting out of hand. I am (very) happy I am already married, because there isn't a chance in hell I'd be able to attract a man without a few (horse) tranquilizers and a couple of feet of rope. How does it go? It puts the lotion on the skin or else...oh, wait, never mind.

I've had my hair in a ponytail for approximately three months. I wear sweatpants/pajama bottoms/ratty shorts I've had since grade 9 on the regular. I base shirt choices on how easily I can haul out a boob. Funny enough, that's also how I wound up pregnant.

Now, I may look like hell, but I smell good at least. It's mandatory that I shower daily. It's my 20 minutes to scrape poop/spit up/drool off of me. If I don't get to shower, don't talk to me, don't look at me, don't come within a 20 mile radius of my house. I will light you on fire.

Speaking of poop/spit up/drool - I don't care about coming into contact with these at all (assuming they are being expelled from Weston). In fact, I'm surprised if I manage to make it through the day without being covered in one (or all) of these substances. Jordan still has yet to master a lack of concern in this department. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when Weston pooped on him last week. It's just poop. NBD, dude.

Eating is also on the back burner. Weston doesn't really nap anymore, so when I actually get him to nap during the day it's generally on my chest. Therefore, I do not move a muscle or make a peep. I sit on the couch hoping that if my stomach is going to eat away at my fat supply, that it starts with the fat on my ass. So far, no go.

And using the bathroom? If Weston is asleep on me, I would rather piss myself than move him to go to the bathroom. Legit. Luckily, all the kegels are working wonders.

I hope I've painted parenthood as the glamorous lifestyle that it is. And nothing says glamorous like vomit chic.

#momlife

I'm back.

It's been four long months and I bet you missed me. In fact, I'm sure of it.

Today's entry is brought to you by an obscene amount of coffee and a bag of salt & vinegar chips. It's the late night snack of champions...or moms who give literally zero fucks about anything.

In case you missed it, Weston John Richard Gorrill made his world debut on September 2, 2015 at 12:01 PM. Weighing in at a whopping 8 lbs 5 oz, this kid was nine days early. I believe it was because he could already tell how awesome I was going to be as a mother and decided he needed to meet me ASAP. Wise choice, little man. I am quite wonderful if I do say so myself (which I do).

Life has been quite hectic since his arrival, but let me see if I can break it down for you.

First and foremost, labour is as awful as they say it is. I unintentionally had a natural childbirth. I don't recommend it. I advise that you avoid it all costs. You should just sew your vagina shut right now. It would be 100% less painful. I know. I had stitches. In my vagina. Did you read that? I said in my vagina. Stitches.

I had an epidural, but I'm one of those lucky ladies who it didn't work for. That means I felt every contraction and every god awful tear (yes, I said TEAR) as I brought Kreature into the world. I will remind him of this every day of his life.

I didn't poop on the delivery table though. I at least have a tiny shred of my dignity left.

Anyways, I did live through it (though at times I wanted to die), and here I am now. A mother of literally the best looking baby on the planet. Don't even pretend like your kid compares. I mean, have you seen my child's hair? It's luscious. It's gorgeous. He's obviously my child.

Although he is ridiculously good looking, he is a bit of a shit sometimes. I'll give him credit where it's due - he has slept anywhere from 6.5 - 8.5 hours straight at night for the last week, but prior to that it was hell. Up between 2 - 5,000,000 times per night and a minimum of an hour each time. He will only sleep if swaddled, and when we first brought him home the only way I could get any sleep was if I propped myself up on pillows and he slept on my chest. Jordan was convinced I was going to suffocate him, but I am happy to report there were no casualties. We still co-sleep in the early morning and honestly, it keeps my sanity so I'm just gonna keep doing what I'm doing and piss on everyone's opinion about it. Seriously.

Having a child has also made me realize how stupid some (most) people are. The things they say, the things they do...all ridiculously stupid.

"Nap while baby naps."
No. I won't. Because there is still laundry to do, a house to clean, meals to cook, etc. Who are these fucking people who nap while their babies nap. Do you have live in help? Shut up.

"Is he a good baby?"
What does that even mean? He eats, poops, cries, sleeps, and then we repeat it all again. Do you mean good in the sense that he isn't defective? We already talked about this - my child is the best looking baby on the planet. There is nothing "defective" about him. Do you mean good in the sense that he is well behaved? Babies don't know how to behave. They just eat, poop, cry, and sleep. Ask me if he's a good teenager and maybe you'll get a better answer. Shut up in the meantime.

"Do you breastfeed or bottle feed?"
Well, considering the fact that he's currently attached to my boob, I feel like that one answers itself. Why does it matter, though? As long as I'm not feeding him alcohol or dirt, it doesn't. Shut up.

And the things people DO? A stranger tried to stick her finger in Weston's mouth. I wish I was even a tiny bit joking. A FINGER. In his MOUTH. WHAT?! I wish he had teeth. I wish he tried to bite her. I should have bit her. I will bite the next person who attempts this. You have been warned.

To sum it all up, people are ridiculous but I have a beautiful baby. He is perfect, even when he shits in my bed (or vomits, or pees, or all three at the same time). I did good. Minor props to my baby daddy. He did okay.

Only One?

I only want one child.

Yep, you read that right! Only one.

The response this gets me when people ask how many children we plan on having is absurd. Plain fucking absurd.

I've been told the following when people learn I only want one child:

• You're being selfish.
• Oh, I'm being selfish? No, I think it's selfish to push your negative, asinine beliefs on me, and if you're so concerned with my child not having enough playmates, why don't you pop out a few? Not that I'd let me kid hang around with the offspring of such a pretentious asshole.
• You'll change your mind.
• People think Jordan and I changed our mind about having a kid in the first place as I had always said I didn't want any. No, the truth to that is I simply told people we didn't want to have kids so they'd stop fucking asking when we were going to have kids. It's like the second you have a ring on your finger, you serve no greater purpose than to procreate. Okay. 
• However, this is not something I am making up to shut people up. It's a simple concept. A simple statement. A simple idea. Say it with me: "I am only having one child". There, doesn't that feel better?
• Your child needs siblings.
• My child will need a lot of things, but a sibling (or two) is not one of them. He'll need to eat, he'll need to sleep, he'll need love, encouragement and support from his family and friends. He does not, however, need a sibling. 
• He'll be lonely.
• Listen, I have enough personality (however annoying) for about 50 people. If anything, I think my child will have a constant need to be by himself if he has to spend any great amount of time with me. Which he will, as I am awesome. Also, there's this weird thing called friends. I'm sure he'll make some in daycare, and then in school, and then at his first job, etc. I might even let them come to our house. Imagine that. 

In a nutshell, Jordan and I (y'know, the ones who have to raise and support this child) are completely comfortable with the idea of having one child. And as it's our choice, you don't have to agree with it, but you can keep your opinions to yourself. What a novel idea, huh?

Preparation

I've started prenatal classes. Three down so far.

These classes have made me realize the following:

1) I don't want to push a baby out of anywhere, least of all there.
2) I don't like to watch other women push babies out.
3) I hate people. Okay, to be fair, I realized that a long time ago.

I made Jordan come with me for the first class. I'm sure you can all guess how that went down. First and foremost, he was not allowed to speak. He's very good at embarrassing me. I didn't even let him introduce himself. When the public health nurse asked if he had anything to add to our introduction I gave, I promptly answered, "No". End of story.

After we left the class, his first words were, "I don't know why the fuck I had to go to that."

Ah, ever the supportive partner.

Anyways, the second prenatal class just confirmed that I eat like shit which explains why the cellulite I have on my ass and thighs is now known as celluheavy.

The third class was where we learned about things like dilation, effacing, and general horror. It's where I realized watching someone else give birth is probably about as awful as giving birth yourself, and also where my hatred of people in general really shone through.

"We're going to watch a video of a woman giving birth," says the RN. Oh, great. I almost wish  Jordan was with me - it would have been fun to watch him faint. He's prone to that.

"You can turn your head if you want."

Uh, it's like a car accident. You can't turn away once it starts even though the whole time you're watching you wish someone would pull your eyes out of your head. Forever ingrained in my brain. For eternity. Bless all those OB/GYNs out there who do this shit for a living. I feel like a lot of therapy is involved.

There was a woman in the class who was the support person for another preggo. Claims she is a doula. I say she is a know-it-all, annoying-as-hell, interrupting mouth piece.

I go to these prenatal classes to somewhat prepare myself for the impending doom of birth. I want to listen to the public health nurse who has been a nurse for 20 years. I feel like she knows her shit. If she doesn't, she's been faking it like a pro for all these years and that works for me, too. The doula, though, felt it completely necessary to put her two cents in whenever the nurse would say anything. No, bitch. I didn't come here to listen to your hippy dippy do relaxation methods. I came to hear about the drugs the doctor will give me (GIVE ME ALL OF THEM) when I am screaming in agony while threatening to rip off the very appendage Jordan used to put me in this situation.

So shut up.

Long story short, I'm really hoping for some major scientific and medical breakthroughs in the next 10 weeks that allows for this baby to just magically appear outside of my body. Better yet, make it so that Jordan gives birth.

K thx bye.

If you don't have anything nice to say...

As my father told me, and as I failed to listen (perhaps this is my karma?!), "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

I've decided a public service announcement is due. As I near the third trimester, my ever burgeoning bump is now at the point where it makes an appearance before I do. That's cool. Baby is approx. two pounds and 15 inches. He is getting big, so obviously I will get bigger with him. 

Despite people's beliefs, I am also quite fucking aware that I am getting bigger. Because of this, I do not need the following said to me:

• You're huge/big/large/ginormous/etc. OR You're going to be huge.
• I am not any of these things, you fucking asshole. Have I gained weight? Yes. A whopping 35 pounds so far. Let's also remember that I'm just barely under 5'10" (thank you, Dad, for the amazing genetics). That means that even though I've gained 35 pounds, I don't look like an oompa loompa. You, however, may leave much to be desired.
• Regarding the comment about the fact that I will be huge - yeah, when I'm 40 weeks pregnant, I don't expect to have the body of Kate Moss. I expect that I will look 40 weeks pregnant. Maybe I will be "huge" at that time, but I have something the size of watermelon in me. What's your excuse?
• Are you sure you aren't carrying twins/triplets/etc?
• Funny story - I got pregnant. Then, I went to the doctor a bunch of times and they did a bunch of ultrasounds over the last 28 weeks. Imagine that! He's only ever found one fucking baby. So yes, I am 137% positive that I'm not have multiples, you fucking twat. 
• You know you're going to be miserable this summer, right?
• Yes. I do. I'm going to be 8 months pregnant in August. I am aware that it will be hot and as a result I will be hot. I know how to count. I know what months of the year I will be pregnant in. I know how I will feel being pregnant during that time because I'm the fucking pregnant one here.
• You're not really eating for two. You only need 'X' amount of extra calories per day.
• I will eat whatever I want, whenever I want. And I don't give a single flying fuck. What I do give a fuck about those is how insensitive some people can be about what I am eating. Is it your body? Is it your baby? Is it your place to make any sort of comment? In case you missed the tone of the rest of this blog entry (which I suspect is entirely possible based on the crass comments coming out of your mouth), the answer is no.

The fact of the matter is that you're not likely to tell a woman who actually is obese that she is huge. You wouldn't comment on her weight. You wouldn't make her feel like a bag of shit.

Therefore, it is not okay to make a pregnant woman (OR ANY HUMAN BEING) feel this way either. 

For the most part, I've accepted these types of comments. I've laughed them off, I've nodded and smiled, or I've ignored them entirely. 

I won't be doing so anymore. 

If anyone feels the need to comment on my weight in the future (or the possible weight of my child based on how I currently look), I will unleash all of my fury on the idiot who does. I won't feel a single bit bad about it either, because hey, along with being a huge pregnant lady I am also a hormonal bitch on a good day. What's your excuse?

Hopes

I took a few weeks off from writing, mostly because the last few weeks have been boring and having three jobs keeps me ridiculously busy.

Kreature has laid off on causing me sickness, back pain, and misery in general for the last few weeks. It almost allows me to forgive him for the 22 weeks prior to that. Almost.

Last month, Jordan and I went to see Jim Jefferies at the Moncton Casino. He spotted me in the front row and razzed me a bit about being pregnant. He also asked what sort of hopes I have for my son. I jokingly responded, "I hope that he doesn't turn out like his father."

All jokes aside (Jordan will be a great dad, I'm sure of it), it got me thinking about what I actually do hope for. That topped with some extra judgmental horseshit I've seen littering my Facebook news feed lately has made me realize the following:

1) I want my son to grow up in a world where he can be who he truly is. Whether he is gay, straight, bisexual, or transgender, I want nothing more than for him to feel comfortable in his own skin and to know that his father and I will always love him (unless of course he's a serial killer...I'm sure I'll still love him, but maaaaaaaaybe I'll keep my distance...and hide the butcher knives).

Just recently I read an article about how a woman believed she had been born into the wrong body and should have been born a man. However, instead of transitioning, she lived her life uncomfortably because obviously God doesn't make mistakes and she is exactly as she should be, regardless of if she feels she should have been born a male. That's fine. That's her choice. But I don't ever want my child to feel like he can't be who he wants to be because of a god he's never seen.

2) This leads me into the fact that we aren't going to baptize/christen/dedicate our child. My grandmother probably just fainted and my grandfather is likely rolling over in his grave. Oy.

Sure, I was baptized Catholic. I went to church every Sunday with my grandfather until he passed away. I went through the whole "confirmation" business in grade 2, and perhaps on some level I like to think that this life isn't it, that there may be a possibility of something beyond; however, I'm not about to bet my life savings on it (as little as that might be).

If Kreature decides that he wishes to partake in religion or in some other spiritual belief, I'll talk with him about it. I'll tell him what I know (which is very little), and let him explore what the world offers in the way of beliefs. I draw the line at trying to sacrifice the dog to Belial, though.

3) I hope that my son knows kindness in this world and can return that kindness as well. I want him to treat people fairly, to know that he shouldn't judge others just because they don't see things the way he does, and above all, to realize that perhaps "agreeing to disagree" is easier than trying to bring someone around to his own belief system.

As I've learned (or perhaps, am still learning), we aren't going to agree on everything. As long as the beliefs of others don't attempt to take away my rights and aren't shared in a hateful way, people can go ahead and believe whatever the hell they want. Same goes for Kreature.

4) I want him to grow up in a world where gender equality is not just something people (women) hope for, but that it's actually in existence. At the very least, I want him to realize that their should be gender equality and if he marries a woman someday, to treat her with the respect she deserves. Hell, if he marries a man, he should respect him too. Respect all.

Sure, I do most of the cooking and cleaning around our house. I wash, fold, and put away the laundry. I make sure things run smoothly. How 1950s of me, right? I do these things because I like the way that I do them. I like the clothes put away a certain way. I love to cook and bake. I enjoy the feeling of coming home to a clean house. That being said, I know Jordan will pitch in if I ask, and he even sometimes surprises me by doing things I don't ask him to do. We both contribute equally financially to the house and we take care of each other. I want the same kind of relationship for my son someday. The kind where we can give each other shit but have each other's back.

In a nutshell, I want Kreature to be raised like I was - by parents who weren't perfect, but who did their best, gave their all, and loved me unconditionally. Which says a lot, because I am a total bitch.

A Day Late, A Dollar Short

I missed my usual Wednesday entry. So sue me.

I feel like this post will be all over the place because of the lack of sleep I got last night, paired with how tired I was before I went to bed.

I had supper at the Brickhouse yesterday, and while I loved what I ate (burger/fries/carrot cake), Kreature had a different opinion.

First, I was uncomfortably full. I didn't eat more food than I normally would, but Kreature is taking up more and more space. I'm quite positive my stomach is somewhere up where my heart is and has been squished to the size of a golf ball. Cool.

Second, I guess he just didn't like the food. I spent the rest of the evening ridiculously nauseous  but never getting the blessed relief of throwing up.

As you can see, becoming pregnant hasn't made me classy.

Finally, when I got home and rolled my sorry ass into bed, there was NO. COMFORTABLE. POSITION. I wasn't someone who could sleep on my back anyways, so that was immediately out, and lying on either side just made me feel like a beached whale.

Speaking of beached whales...I am slowly (actually, quickly) becoming one.

Don't bother rolling your eyes at me. I know I have this tiny being growing inside of me. I know it's normal to gain weight during pregnancy. I know I'm being ridiculous. However, that doesn't change how I feel.

I would like to thank each person who has told  me that I look great, because I don't feel great. It's hard to watch your body change into something completely different in such a short period of time. Sure, the doctor says 25-35 pounds is a normal weight gain, but actually gaining that weight is different.

My scale has become my worst enemy. I'm not sad the battery is dying and that I know I'm too lazy to replace it.

I'm quite sure that my ass is becoming so large that the Charlottetown airport could soon use it for a runway. That being said, it's not likely to happen based on the cellulite. Makes for some dangerous potholes.

It's A Secret

As you may or may not already know, Kreature is in fact a boy!

I had a feeling it was a boy. At no point did I ever think it was a girl, so apparently my intuition was spot on.

Prior to knowing the sex of the baby, Jordan and I were pretty well decided on a name. We had one for a girl and one for a boy. However, it appears that once you actually know the sex of the baby, all of that goes out the window.

The name we had originally decided on is no longer for sure. In fact, several others came to mind shortly after my ultrasound.

That being said, we have finally decided on a first and middle name. It was easily agreed upon and only took a few minutes. I read through a list of names that I liked and Jordan told me which ones he liked of those ones. From there, we tried each first name out with the middle name and went with what sounded best to us.

I had very few requirements when choosing a name. I wanted it to be original (not original in a celebrity baby name sort of way), and nothing from the Top 100 lists. I also wanted the name to be something the child could grow into, something that would suit him from a child into adulthood. Finally, I wanted a name that could be shortened for a nickname (much to my dad's dismay...he has never once called me Jess).

That's it. Pretty straightforward.

Those requirements have lead us to, what I believe, is a great name for our child.

Are you wondering what it is? Yeah, too bad. I'm not telling anyone.

I'm blown away by how honest (re: rude) people can be about name choices. There are lots of kids out there with legitimately ridiculous names. Take any celebrity for example...Blue Ivy, Apple, etc. These are names a kid can never live down. Rest assured, I won't be naming my child anything like Carrot or Coffee Grinds. If I was, I'd definitely say I deserved to be harassed about it. However, I'm not.

Some people will flat out say they don't like the name you've picked out. Others will make the face. You know...that face. The one that says they disapprove but are too "polite" to say anything. Some will give you suggestions on "better" names. Regardless, those reactions are negative and no mother wants to hear that you don't like the name she's picked for her child.

That's why we've decided to wait. People will know what the baby's name is when he arrives and it's set in stone.

I dare someone to tell me they don't like my son's name after that. See how many of your limbs you have left.

Can't Touch This

I am at the half way point in this pregnancy.

A whopping 20 weeks. Emphasis on whopping.

Anyways, now that I'm into what I refer to as a full fledged baby gut, I would like to pass on a warning.

Don't touch my god damn stomach.

No, really. If I don't know you, if we've never met, if we've only briefly talked in the past and I wouldn't tell you about my deep, dark, twisty secrets, then you shouldn't at any point feel like you can touch my stomach.

Please note, this does not apply to immediate family and friends. Touch away. And then tell me I look beautiful. And then buy me stuff. And then cook me supper (or all meals of the day).

Seriously, I just don't get how some people think it's complete okay, socially acceptable even, to come up to a pregnant lady and touch her stomach (and don't give me that "miracle of life" crap). What if I wasn't pregnant and you're in fact rubbing my burger love food baby belly? I'd be half tempted to tell the toucher I wasn't pregnant, just to make it as awkward as possible. If you're going to go around putting your hands where they don't belong, then I should get to make you feel like an ass for doing so.

That being said, I haven't been a victim of this yet, but I feel like it's coming. Y'know, like the Starks knew winter was coming. If only their foresight of the weather could be used to predict their impending deaths. Oops, SPOILER ALERT.

I've touched one preggo belly in my life, and it belongs to that of my future sister-in-law. Even then, I felt like I was invading her space. She's already got an alien tap dancing on her bladder; she doesn't need me to tune in for the show. That being said...I will continue to rub your belly, Tash. Deal with it.

Moral of the story: Keep your hands to yourself, ya filthy animal.

Indecisive

Say hello to Kreature.

In case you missed it, I've nicknamed the baby "Kreature". It's my play on "Kreacher" from Harry Potter.

Yeah, yeah, Kreacher is kind of a homely little shit in Harry Potter, but I'm only 18 weeks pregnant. That means my baby is a homely little shit, too.

Anyways, I saw my OBGYN for this first time yesterday, and god damn it's nice to deal with a doctor who addresses your concerns and acknowledges what you say.

I let him know about my back pain and he immediately offered a doctor's note for physio so my health insurance would cover it. I am hopeful that my appointment on Friday for physio will leave me feeling better, or at the very least, less like I want to kill people.

Ah, who am I kidding, those feelings were in place long before I became pregnant.

He did write on my chart that I weigh 170 lbs, though, which is off by 10 lbs. That was unsettling based purely on the fact that I've never weighed 170 lbs before and I do not currently weigh 170 lbs. Don't give me a heart attack, dude. I hear that's bad for my health and Kreature's.

I'm now in the process of trying to pick out a crib. Did you know that picking out a crib is probably the hardest decision I've ever made? Aside from consciously deciding each day to not kill my husband?

It's hard work.

I've asked for opinions from multiple people and they all differ (of course). I think my sister wants to punch me in the head, because I keep sending her texts asking, "But what about this one?" I'd apologize, but seriously, I don't generally say sorry. I'll make it up to her with extra baby time (AKA that's when I'll shower and shave the leg hair that I'm sure will be braid-able at that point).

I think picking out a crib is actually harder than deciding to  have a kid. Seriously, the conversation went like this:

"We should have a kid."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"Okay."

So, for all of you that were thinking that Kreature was an accident (which is understandable, as I repeated over and over every time I was asked that I was never having kids), as you can see, we had an intense and thorough discussion about it before we jumped into anything too crazy.

If only I could go about choosing a crib the same way.

Ouch

The pain I have been in over the last couple weeks is comparable to nothing I've ever felt before. If Satan exists, I believe his sole purpose is to create the most unimaginable pain and inflict it on me. Well done, Satan. Bravo.

Something is wrong with my pelvis and it's to the point now where I have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, standing upright, walking, and overall, maintaining a normal life.

I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy.

Yes, actually, I would. Bitch.

That being said, I am off to see a chiropractor on April 9th to see if there is anything I can do or anything he can do. I swear, if I don't get some sort of relief I am going to evict this child from inside my body.

Now, now, now, you pro-life wingnuts, don't take that as me saying I'm going to have an abortion. Obviously not, and no, the baby isn't going anywhere until the 40 week point (assuming all goes well with the pregnancy). I just need to vent and since this is my blog, I will say what I want.

I did go see a massage therapist yesterday (he work Birkenstocks with black socks and jeans...visualize this). That was...painfully awesome?! I don't know. I've only ever had relaxation massages, so it was an experience to say the least. I thought at one point he was just going to push his hand through my rib cage and out my stomach. Something very Alien-esque.

Long story short, it provided minimal relief and I am still a cranky bitch. So surprising, right? (I mean about the part where I am still a cranky bitch...)

I feel that based on the extraordinary pain I am in right now, my child should end up being rich and famous. And take care of me for the rest of my life.

Or at the very least, be able to clean his/her god damn room by the time s/he's one. Is that too much to ask?

Needs Vs. Wants

I had my first legitimate pregnancy craving over the weekend.

I wanted...no, scratch that. I needed Nesquick chocolate milk syrup.

I haven't had it in years. I haven't thought about purchasing the stuff in years, either. I have zero idea where the notion came from, but I was in the frame of mind that if someone didn't bring me Nesquick chocolate milk syrup, I was probably going to go postal on someone (re: Jordan).

Well, my knight in shining armor of a husband did not offer to get me some, so I took to Facebook to try and coerce my mother or father into doing so.

Neither of them acknowledged my plea for help. How rude. That's 10 less minutes of baby time for them.

Oh, if you're wondering what I mean by that...I have decided that I will award time with my baby to people based on good deeds. At the rate my mother is going, she is already in the negatives at -25 minutes of baby time. My father is sitting at around 5 minutes. My sister has worked her way up to about 10 minutes. I'll have to check my records.

Anyways, Mom and Dad did not want to help me when I was in dire straights.

Y'know who did though? My sister-in-law. She drove from Summerside after work with a litre of Nesquick. I could have kissed her. I also thought seriously about naming my baby after her.

Since bringing me the Nesquick, I have managed to drink another four litres of milk in two days. At this rate, we won't be able to pay our mortgage based on how much we spend on milk. I should invest in a cow.

Also, I have noticed that the increase in sugar in my diet via the milk and chocolate syrup have increased the size of my ass monumentally. At this rate, I will have to enter rooms sideways, and only if the door frame is extra wide.

The Positive Side of Pregnancy

I didn't think there were going to be positive aspects to this pregnancy. I thought I was just going to be a miserable preggo lady, which is very similar to how I was pre-pregnancy, and that I was just going to have to deal with it until Baby G arrived.

I was wrong.

I don't usually like being wrong. Actually, I'm generally NOT wrong. Just ask Jordan; he'll agree. I'm okay with being wrong about this though.

So, are you sitting on the edge of your seat wondering what I could possibly say has been great about this pregnancy?! I thought so. Here you go!

Maternity jeans.

They are the end-all be-all of clothing and the second I pulled these bad boys up over my ass, I knew I was in heaven. Jeans with elastic waist bands are not just for those over 70. They are for everyone. I will never wear regular jeans again, pregnant or not. I don't want to. I can't go back now that I know what maternity jeans are like. I could squat in them, try a few yoga poses, run a marathon...ha, who am I kidding, I wouldn't do any of those things in the $120 Lululemon pants I own, why the hell would I do them in jeans? Even maternity jeans.

Anyways, the point is that the two pairs of maternity jeans I now own are better than any item of clothing I have ever purchased, including my wedding dress. If I could go back in time, I would wear maternity jeans to my wedding instead.

Now, I bet you're wondering how things could get better after discovering maternity jeans. I thought the same thing, but then I realized something else as I was getting dressed the other day.

My boobs are huge.

Now, I use the term "huge" relative to the previous size of my boobs. I am no Pamela Anderson (in any sense), but damn, they are big.

As a girl who was once told in junior high that I was a pirate's dream because I had a "sunken chest" (to the shit head who said that to me, I'll remember it 'til the day I die, and it gives me great pleasure to know you are fat), these boobs I now have are glorious. It's like I got a free boob job, and all I had to do was let this little creature reside inside of me for nine months. Deal. Done. No questions asked. I'll sell my soul to keep them. I love my (newish) boobs.

The best part about these boobs, though, is the fact that they now catch the food I drop. No longer does the food drop down into my shirt and settle on my stomach. My girls have my back. They know I want to eat that dropped food. They save it for me. So thoughtful.

Okay, that's it. I've spewed all the positiveness I can for one day...or for one year, for that matter. I am just happy to report that pregnancy isn't as bad as I thought it would be. I can thank maternity jeans and my ta-ta's for that.

Fat

It's Wednesday.

That means I'm another week along, bringing me to a whopping 14 weeks.

Y'know what I feel like, though? I feel like I am 100 weeks pregant without the perk of being able to see the creature move/kick. Wait, is that a benefit? I think it may actually just freak the hell out of me.

I feel fat as hell, and don't you dare roll your eyes at me. The way my moods go, I'm likely to slap them out of your head.

Seriously, though...I feel huge.

The other day I tried to squeeze into a pair of jeans I have had (and that have fit!) for a couple of years. They're one of my favorite pairs. Thanks to my ever growing gut and ass, I no longer fit into them.

Actually, if I do that whole jump up and down, squat real low, shake everything from one side to the other, I can pull them up over my arse. I'm aware that is likely a visual you didn't want, but I am beyond caring what others want. I want what I want, which is to fit into my god damn jeans.

Anyways, I get these jeans up over my ass and they will button. When I say button, though, I mean I now have the mother of all muffin tops. I could feed half the world with this muffin top. It's not cute. No one will look at me, thinking "Oh, she is just the picture of pregnant beauty". They will cover their eyes and beg the gods for forgiveness, because they must have done something obviously horrible in their lives to deserve to be blinded in such a manner.

I decided that since I had worked up such a sweat to get these babies on, that I wasn't changing. Really, though, it's that Jordan was sleeping, and I had no one to help me pry myself out of them. That, and I was beyond winded. Bitches running marathons ain't got nothin' on how I felt after getting into those jeans. Heart palpitations galore.

I figured I would be okay because I recently purchased one of those belly bands. It looks like a tube top, but you wear it around your waist. It's supposed to allow you to wear your pre-pregnancy jeans for longer because you can wear them unbuttoned and use this belly band as a super elastic-y belt.

Like I said, I figured I would be okay. I figured wrong.

Never in my life, besides the day my mother gave birth to me, have I shown my ass to so many people. This belly band did nothing. I sat down, my ass came out. I stood up, my ass came out. I bent over, my ass came out. You get the picture. My ass was out.

If I had any luck in the world, the granny panties I was wearing would have at least stayed up to try to save some of my dignity. Wait, I just said granny panties and dignity in the same sentence. Never mind.

Okay, okay, continuing on...

They did not save the day. Why? Because the aforementioned jeans that were/are way too tight latched on to them for all they were worth and took the granny panties down with them. I like that attitude though - if I'm going down, you're coming with me. I stand by that. I understand where you are coming from, jeans.

Long story short, I'd like to send a quick apology out to those that had to bear witness to my ass. It's large, it's in charge, and it's here to stay.



Unsolicited

First things first, I pooped three times today.

And I told my husband.

Because our dirty talk has taken on whole new levels. It's now, quite literally, dirty. Filthy, even.

Moving forward, let me talk about something that has annoyed me since the second I told people I was pregnant.

Advice. Actually, to be more specific, I am referring to unsolicited advice.

"Get lots of sleep now! You won't get any when the baby comes."

"Don't eat x, y, and z." OR "Make sure you eat x, y, and z."

"Y'know, breastfeeding is best for baby."

"Enjoy every moment as it goes by so fast!"

Etc., etc.

Let's start this first by saying I am not the ungrateful bitch you are likely thinking I am.

A lot of the advice I have been given has been great. I'm not saying I don't appreciate the fact that other women out there are trying to help me in what has been, so far, an entirely foreign and scary process. Not scary in the sense that I spend every waking moment wondering if Cletus the Fetus is okay, but scary in the sense that I have gained 11 lbs, I eat enough carbs to sustain a small country, and I vomit at the thought of any red meat. SO MUCH FUN.

All I'm saying is that not everything that applies to one woman and her experience will apply to another.

So, let's get things straight, okay?

I'm going to breastfeed, so don't worry about asking me if I'm going to do "what's best for baby". Y'know what else? If breastfeeding proves to be unsuccessful, as it doesn't work for all women, I will make the choice to formula feed and I won't feel a single bit bad about it.

I understand the information and research that indicates that breastfeeding is best for the baby. I agree with it. But, I am also very aware that my baby isn't going to shrivel up and fail to thrive all because he/she didn't have breast milk. Furthermore, who am I to judge the decisions another mother makes if it in no way affects me or my child.

Let me just go ahead and say that the last statement I just made in no way reflects how I feel about anti-vaxxers and their decisions for their children. That's a whole other can of worms and that's a decision that CAN and MAY affect my child, so don't get me started.

The part about getting all the sleep you can get now before baby comes is laughable. You are aware that I could sleep for 12 hours a day, every day, until this child arrives and I would still be tired after continuous late night feedings and diaper changes, right? Okay, perfect. I'm glad we got that one straightened out. So stop saying it. Now.

Any type of health related advice is also unnecessary. Want to know why? Because I have a doctor. When I have questions that pertain to my health and my well being, I ask my doctor. That guy who completed umpteen years of schooling and has been a doctor for longer than I've been alive. Yeah, I trust him. I trust him when he tells me I can continue with the physical activity I have been doing. I trust him when he says my blood pressure is a little high and we should monitor it. I then trust him when he says my blood pressure has returned to normal. I trust him when he tells me to take my vitamins.

Long story short - I trust him. It's the exact opposite of how I feel about Jenny McCarthy, but I digress...

At this exact moment, I am feeling pretty okay with my pregnancy. I mean that in the sense that I haven't been sick today, I am less tired than usual, and I have yet to experience a mood swing. I am enjoying today. I don't, however, enjoy every day of pregnancy. I don't enjoy the lack of energy. I don't enjoy the fact that I have thrown up more in the last three months than I have in the last 20 years. I don't enjoy that at a mere 13 weeks pregnant none of my god damn jeans fit me properly. I don't enjoy the 11ish pounds I've already gained.

And guess what?! That's okay! I don't have to enjoy those things. I don't have to enjoy every moment because not every moment is enjoyable. That doesn't mean I'm going to be a shit mother or that I don't already love the little creature that resides inside of me.

While I thoroughly appreciate (most of) the advice others give me, not all of it will apply to me. And that's okay. Because this is my pregnancy.

The Three P's of Pregnancy

1) Puking - My morning sickness didn't kick in until about a week after I found out I was pregnant, and then the phrase "Release the Kraken!" comes to mind. In all honesty, I consider myself lucky when it comes to the morning sickness (hah, remind me of this when my head is in the toilet). Anyways, my morning sickness has stuck true to its name and has only been an issue in the morning. It goes a little something like this:
-Eat breakfast
-Run to bathroom
-Puke my guts up
-Carry on with my day

I did get a prescription for Diclectin, which has helped a LOT. I've only had a couple mornings since starting the Diclectin where it didn't work. Stomach bile is not your throat or mouth's friend.

2) Pooping - Y'know how in some guys' heads, girls just don't poop?! Well, I don't. Listen, it's about as glamorous as the vomiting I previously mentioned. I just want to eat prunes all day and pray to the pooping god that I poop. I miss pooping.

Being pregnant, having morning sickness, and no longer being able to poop has made me realize one major thing: I was very stupid to choose a house design that did NOT include two bathrooms.

Unlike myself, my darling husband's bowels function unbelievably well and on a very precise schedule. It's very likely that if I get to the bathroom before him in the morning, he will kick me out mid teeth brushing so that he can also "release the Kraken". Sometimes while I am brushing my teeth, I trigger my gag reflex and HAVE TO PUKE IMMEDIATELY. This happened recently, and at 5:30 AM I had to rush out the front door and projectile vomit off the front step because Jordan was mid poop and there was no going back.

Don't worry, neighbors! Just experiencing morning sickness and not recovering from drinking myself into oblivion.

**Note to self - any future home will have an additional bathroom.

3) Pain - I constantly have aches and pains. My back hurts, my head hurts, my legs hurt, etc. Now, normally I'd dope myself up on some muscle relaxers and triple extra strength Advil, but these things will cause your baby to grow an extra head or seven legs, or something like that. While that sounds great if I wanted to sell my child to the circus (or to the gypsies, as my mother so often threatened) I think I'll just stick to complaining about it instead.

Now, if I could just convince Jordan to pay for me to get a massage, all would be right with the world. Actually, I know his PIN number and have access to his credit and debit cards...I think I'll be okay.

Where is the glow?

Since I announced my pregnancy, many people have told me that they are looking forward to the stories I will have about both being pregnant and having a child. If there's something I can do, it's be completely and unabashedly honest. I don't do embarrassment (okay, that's a lie, but I try to pretend to play it cool), and I don't mind "oversharing".

So prepare yourselves for an uncensored look into what it's really like to be pregnant.

First and foremost, I was promised a glow.

As of today I am 11 weeks pregnant, and this glow is non existent.

Unless you count that haze that surrounds me because of the increase in gas I pass. If that's the case, then WOW! What a glow. Jordan has started to refer to our bedroom as a "gas chamber".

Oh! Did I mention that I now have the skin of a prepubescent boy? I was lucky enough as a teenager to make it through junior high and high school with nary a blemish. Pregnancy is now doing its job to ensure I know exactly what it feels like. Did you know I can create both the little dipper AND the big dipper by just connecting the dots on my face? It's like a permanent astronomy lesson.

Okay, I think you've been grossed out enough for one day! On one hand, I hope to be able to provide you with more entertainment as I get fatter and fatter. On the other hand, I am so over this crap already and can someone just hand me a baby that didn't have to force its way out of an area that nothing of that size should be forced out of?