August 10th, 2008
I guess it was a bit rude of me to just off and run away on vacation without saying anything. I had a last-minute paranoia that someone would come and pillage my home, despite having the world’s nosiest gun-toting (and retired!) neighbors who are fans of the concept of shooting first, asking questions later. (This is my second such neighbor IN A ROW. Vermont and Florida, two gun-friendly states!)
(Also, uh, disappearing for a week is SORT OF OBVIOUS, which means I’m sort of dumb, but whatever.)
Vacation was … relaxing. Very relaxing, in fact, as we did very little. I know! And we were in such a great city and everything! But the truth is, I wasn’t up for much, as I felt like ass for pretty much the entire vacation. In fact, I’ve felt like warmed-over doggie doo for an alarming number of weeks now, to the point where I’m wondering, oh my God, will I EVER FEEL GOOD AGAIN?
No, I mean, really. WHEN? WHEN? OH MY GOD, WHEN?
(Heads up: this is not a painful rant about being sick! I promise! IT GETS BETTER.)
You know what was nice? Eating. Eating was nice. And no, I didn’t get my poutine, because it appears, ladies and gentlemen, that I am off of french fries, for the time being, at least. I look at them and want to cry, because they used to be so good and now … oh no. Not now. French fries are the devil.
Also on notice: chicken (please, no. No no no), most seafood (HORK), a terrifying amount of vegetables and anything else that strikes me as repulsive for no other reason than … I don’t know. Oh YES. The sandwich franchise famous for a young man named Jared? The word — and I literally mean this — THE WORD makes me puke just thinking about it, never mind the SMELL. THE SMELL. OH MY GOD WHO CAN EAT THERE? WHAT IS THAT HOUSE OF HORRORS?
Also? I throw up. A lot. Three times daily, in fact.
Have you figured it out yet, my friends?
I’m pregnant. In my 11th week, due at the very beginning of March.
Believe me when I tell you that no one — NO ONE — is more surprised about this than me. Well, and maybe Adam, who I’d already wailingly informed two days prior that I wasn’t pregnant again that month, as I’d peed on about 5,000 tests ALREADY and THEY WERE ALL NEGATIVE. (Also? I was pretty sure I’d gotten my period. Or was about to. Or something.)
But lo! A FAINT POSITIVE WE DID HAVE.
And then I ran to the store and bought 10 more tests and peed on them all. Over and over again. I didn’t stop peeing on them until I started puking, because who needs a positive test when you can’t keep your head out of the toilet?
I was too apprehensive to even think about getting excited, you know? But the ultrasound and the little thump thump thump thump THUMPITY THUMP that filled the room with my teeny little alien bun-baby’s heartbeat proved otherwise.
So if all goes well, folks, I’m having a baby. Adam is beside himself. And I’ve been dying — DYING — to tell you about it, and can’t believe you endured the drivel of writing around it over the last month or so. Give yourselves a gold star! But not a cookie (EW COOKIES.) (I know, COOKIES? But yes. No no cookies, no thank you. I just threw up a bowl of Cookie Crisp and cannot endure the thought.)
(Doughnuts are in the clear, however. Big fan of the doughnuts.)
Oh, and also?
*Gary Lightbody and Lisa Hannigan
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