So we have a long way to go here, people.

(By the way:  thank you for your helpful naming comments.  I am so glad we have 5-6 months – Lord willing – to figure this out.  We are praying for at least 32 weeks.  You can join us if you want!)

By “long way”, I mean, “my husband has a long way”, meaning, he is going to have to LEARN some TACT!

So we all know that I am now the proud (or somewhat alarmed) owner of a beer gut.  Like a full-on, Homer-Simpson-style, I-ate-many-many-many-donuts-and-beer, BEER GUT.  It does not matter that I snack on grapes and apples.  It does not matter that I eat like 80 snacks/day in tiny proportions of food (which I do, mostly because I puke with any other formulation of food).  Still, the gut expands.

And expands.

Yesterday, my fat jeans – FAT JEANS – did not fit.

And so I am now best friends with a Bella band.

And yes, I know, it is early, and you know what?  I think it is because I started this process at a buck-five, and I am short ANYway, and so where’s the extra stuff to go?

Apparently in the Homer-Simpson-style midsection.  In a direction that would appear to be perpendicular to my body.

So I am a little perturbed by the whole thing, mostly because I really thought I’d have another 3-5 weeks for this all to hit the fan (plus:  see previous posts on needing to interview at a job – I am so hitting up the spanx – the baby will be okay for a few hours in spanx, right?  Please say yes), and I do have a history of some body-image issues, and, well, honestly, what woman DOESN’T get a little bit alarmed by the growing expanse of the waistline she previously fought a hard battle to control?

OK, moving on.

So every night, I whip out my big ol’ belly (which I realize is only going to get bigger from here – ok, Em, don’t hate me – I am getting used to this, and I am a wuss) and say, to DB, “LOOK!  IT’S GETTING HUGE!” – to which he calmly responds, “No, honey, it’s not.  You’re PREGNANT!  It’s NORMAL!” – because he thinks that will make me feel good.

As if I didn’t know that about myself.

He is so wrong.

See, I would like some validation that I am getting massive, and this whole passive-aggressive, “you’re pregnant!” thing is just not cutting it.  Right?  Right.  As in, could you please validate my beer gut?  Just say, “Yes, honey, it looks like you are turning into a whale” or something?!?

Scroll forward to last night.

I am not the world’s most awesome laundry-keeper-upper these days, so I ran out of PJs, and I pulled out this nightgown (I really hate nightgowns – I hate the way they ride up and tangle up and therefore rarely wear them) made out of t-shirt material.  I look in the mirror, sort of pathetically, like, “Oh, I hate that I must wear a nightgown”.  That was really ALL I WAS THINKING.

DB is already in bed, trying to convince me to hurry up the getting-into-bed-process, and says, “Hon, it’s FINE – it hides IT pretty well.”


It hides IT?

It hides WHAT?

He instantly regrets this choice of words.

“It – I mean – nothing!  It’s nothing!  Just come to bed,” he pleaded.


What, praytell, honey, dear husband, is IT?

And what do I need to HIDE?!?

OMG, this is *so not* going to go well for him the next 6 months.  Becuase “IT” is only going to get more gargantuan with time.


He eventually, under some physical coercion from his darling, KNOCKED UP BY HIM, wife, weakly, helpfully, said, “Your bump?”


We have a lot of work to do, huh.

~12 weeks today