Old news: I'm pregnant. In my current iteration, this statement is a big No Shit but back when this creepy-cute ultrasound image was taken (at 10 weeks gestation, Sept 21, 2010), I was at my sveltest since I began drinking beer some 15 years ago.
The logistics (to be recorded here for posterity's sake) of this particular gestation:
Due date: April 10, 2011. This date is notable primarily because it is nine months to the day after our July 10, 2010 wedding. I would have ventured that our inebriation levels at the end of our nuptial celebrations precluded any possibility of conception but it appears I am to be proven wrong. Again. The human sex drive is a powerful thing! (And I would like to give kudos to my wonderful husband for not only having the virility to persevere in the face of massive alcohol intake but also the determination and enthusiasm to rid me of my corset and various other restrictive wedding accoutrement.)
Gender: A big surprise. The options are limited, though.
Mama (that's me!): Great health, huge boobs. Seriously, though, I seem to have won the pregnancy lottery; I struggled with some minor exhaustion in the first trimester but lost most of my beer fat/weight (and weighed in three pounds less than pre-pregnancy weight at my 16-week prenatal appointment), bypassed morning sickness, and have generally loved everything about pregnancy. I'm not super excited about perineal self-massage but I will refrain from making any kind of crude comparisons to other "self-massage" techniques. Look at the wisdom and restraint that pregnancy has bestowed upon me!
Dad (that's Dan!): In spite of being a self-proclaimed "Butt Man" (meaning only that he would prefer to ogle a fine female ass than heaving mammaries), he's vocally appreciative of the new-and-improved cleavage that is a happy symptom of pregnancy. Likewise, he's enjoyed drinking for three (I still order drinks that I then make Dan drink after having a sip or two) and having a designated driver. I think he finds my daily struggles to clad myself, by turns, exasperative, exhausting, and hilarious, and he is frequently called upon to reassure me that I'm not a whale (more like a blimp) when I do things like break the coffee table by sitting on it (yes, truly). He also, romantically, compared me to Barney from The Simpsons a few nights ago, if gives you any indication of how dead sexy I am these days.
Issues: None of real note. That said, Mama (that's me!) is fairly anemic and has struggled to maintain adequate iron levels. Happily (for me; less so for Dan), our midwife suggested increasing our red meat consumption, so I'm on a hamburger and steak diet, which suits me just fine. I have also lost my nominal pre-pregnancy grace and stability. This means that apparently pregnant women should reconsider engaging in activities like soccer, rock-climbing, snowboarding, biking in the rain, and wind sprints. Also, pregnant women can make a wipe-out look surprisingly like a plane crash. No grace.
The rest I'll leave for future (shorter) posts.
