So. We did it again. Officially up le duff again.
So far I’ve spent 13 weeks trying not to throw up or explode at someone. Apparently my tolerance for stupid severely decreases when I’m with child.
Ritz crackers have been my saviour, the salty little gods. My first trimester aversion to fruit and vegetables shows little sign of abating and I suspect I might give birth to a Happy Meal.
I have desperately been trying to hide my bump at work. With limited success. I’ve seen them look, but are too scared to ask if I’m pregnant in case I’m just fat. We’re past that now, to say I’ve ‘popped’ is an understatement. More like exploded, you could float me over London to protect the city from ariel attacks.
My skin is NOT glowing, the only place my hair is getting thicker and more lustrous is my chin and as I’m already the mother of a toddler getting plenty of rest has been out of the question. I fell asleep in front of the boy the other day and he started smacking me with a plastic banana.
So thirteen weeks down, 27 to go, (if by some miracle baby arrives on time) so expect 27 weeks of whinging and perhaps a little more information than you’re comfortable with.
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The Postpartum Years 