Let Them Drink Coffee!

I'm learning that you have to give up a lot of things in pregnancy; your body, any medication that actually helps whatever ailment you may have, and sleep to name a few. Easily the worst sacrifice for me has been the drinking. Staying away from tequila has been easy, because you know, fetal alcohol syndrome. I'm talking about the sweet nectar of the gods, the magic serum that makes me a nice person. I'm talking about caffeine.

 

I have loved Starbucks since I started pulling all nighters in college. I could stay up until 6am, studying of course, grab a venti no whip caramel Frappuccino, and be at the top of my game for whatever the day threw at me. It's literally a magic potion that makes my brain work, keeps my eyes alert, and forces kind words out of my mouth even at ungodly hours.

 

As a strictly regimented soul, I started every day of the work week the same way - at the Starbucks drive through at 7:15am. This carried on for so long, and across multiple cities, that one day when I was running uncharacteristically late, it was cause for alarm. I remember pulling up to the order board at 7:40am and before I could say one word, I heard 'There you are! We were getting worried!!' Maybe that should have been my first clue that I have a teeny tiny caffeine addiction problem.

 

Fast forward several years and a few more cities, I still frequent my local double tailed mermaid. Like a military trained bomb sniffing dog, I can smell espresso, caramel, and a green straw from any 5 mile radius. Only now, 85% of my joy in life, ahem, 85% of my joy in coffee has been stolen from me. Now, I have to order broken coffee. Just saying the word 'decaf' makes me cringe. It's the equivalent of ordering a coffee flavored milkshake, which don't get me wrong, is still delicious. Worthless yet delicious...decaf is the coffee world's version of Magic Mike. But it is all I have left for approximately 10 more weeks.
 

Being that it is currently my only shot at a fix, a few days ago Ryan took me on a Starbucks date. We went through the drive through, he was driving and ordered for us, and when we received our total, I said 'Ooh..ask her about her ring when we get to the window!' Slightly baffled, Ryan said, 'Excuse me?' to which I flatly replied 'When we get to the window, ask her about her wedding ring. She's getting married on Halloween and she and her fiancé are getting their wedding rings made by a friend who is a woodworker. I want to know if the rings are done yet.'

 

By now, he was less baffled and more appalled. Halfway turned out of the driver's seat so he could face me and fully take in my answer, the rest of our conversation went like this:

 

Ryan: 'Just hearing her voice and you know which barista she is? And you know her wedding date? And weirdly specific details about her and her fiancé's rings??'

Me: 'Yeah.'

Ryan: 'How do you know all of this?!'

Me: 'She told me.'

Ryan: 'You have a SERIOUS problem. And I'm not asking her about her ring.'

 

For the record, her rings are done and she and her fiancé love them, and she will show them to me when she returns from her honeymoon late next week. Also for the record, the first person to see our baby after he is born is whoever shows up at the hospital with a venti, no whip, extra caramel, REAL Frappuccino. On your marks, people...

Nylons No More

Pregnancy has thrown me for a few loops in the last six and a half months. Sleepless nights, confusion/forgetting simple things, and lately, a few embarrassing incidents.

 

The scale has  been mercifully very slow to creep upward, so I have enjoyed being able to wear my normal clothing for much longer than expected. I have purchased a few maternity pieces, but they have been very roomy on me so far. In the wardrobe department, this pregnancy has pretty well been business as usual.

 

So imagine my surprise when yesterday, I noticed that the waist of my nylons was starting to roll throughout the day. I realize that, at 14 weeks from giving birth, my body is going to start to change, so I tried not to panic. I discreetly unrolled them and tugged them back into place around my growing frame, and made a mental note to retire this particular pair from the rotation until it no longer looks like I have a basketball under my dress.

 

I had all but forgotten about the inconvenience of rolling nylons, when I was cruelly reminded of their impending strike against holding themselves up around the increasing circumference of my body. Because life isn't fair, this final notice of resignation from the panty hose that I employ came at the very worst possible time and place - in the produce aisle of the grocery store, with a cart full of groceries.

 

There I was, almost done with my shopping trip and checking over the strawberries I was about to add to my cart when I felt the slow tug of nylon folding over onto itself. Since this had already been the theme of my day, I glanced around the fruit section to see how many witnesses I would have to navigate, grabbed the side of the waistband through my dress, and shimmied them back into place. As I took my next step toward the checkout line, it happened. The slow, agonizing moment where you realize that you are about to be in a full blown public situation, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

 

Unlike the previous rolls earlier in the day, this wasn't just a slightly uncomfortable bending of a waistband onto itself. This, my friends, was a bona fide avalanche of nylon. One, two, three, four rolls went flying over each other faster than I could count. Then five. Then six. Until, in nothing longer than half a minute, I had panty hose rolled halfway down my legs. Like sticking-out-from-under-my-dress halfway down my legs. In the PRODUCE aisle.

 

Because I am the most unfortunate individual on the face of the earth in terms of these situations, I was wearing one of the pairs where the legs are connected all in one piece of fabric. So in case you aren't fully getting the visualization, let me paint you a little picture: six and a half months pregnant, rolled nylons halfway down my legs, in a crowded grocery store, 100 feet from the nearest restroom, and no way to gracefully pull them on or off, because they are attached to one another.

 

After waddling (literally) across the vegetable section with my legs stepping as closely together as I could get them, I did finally make it to the sanctuary of a restroom where I could peel them the rest of the way off and stuff them into the bottom of my purse for the remainder of my errands. The epitome of class.

 

Pregnancy Brain is REAL

In the interest of full disclosure, I did quite a few dumb things before I was pregnant, so I can't blame all of my airheaded moves on our fetus. There have been a few instances lately, however, that I am certain were caused by the budding human we made.

 

Since our baby is a jerk who still makes me very sick 23.5 weeks into this ride, I see a lot of doctors. I was recently asked when my next appointment is, and I gave two different days because I honestly cannot remember who I see each week, when, or even at which location. I collect those little appointment reminder cards like Ryan collects guitar picks - we find them everywhere! A couple of weeks ago, I had an appointment with a specialist first thing in the morning, at his office across the river. So I dragged myself out of bed at an ungodly hour in order to be showered, dressed, and to his office by 7am. After weaving through the maze of an unfamiliar hospital, I finally found his office, and learned that I was there a day early. And I did what any sick, tired, pregnant lady would; I cried. I stood in front of the reception window bawling and apologizing, then apologizing for bawling, and tearfully asked if I had to come back that early the next day. Luckily for me, the nicest doctor in the entire world came out of his office, greeted me with a huge smile, and said it was no problem and he would be happy to see me right then. Obviously, he is a kind man who took pity on the pathetic grown woman who was sobbing at the front desk because she can't read a calendar.

 

A few days later, I was making a late night grocery store run for a healthy pregnancy snack of m&m's and cheddar & sour cream baked Lay's. I took the dog out, got her kenneled, collected my purse, keys, what I thought was my phone, and headed out the door. By the time I got to the store, I realized that Ryan would be home any minute, and I hadn't told him that I was leaving, so he would be expecting me to be there. Not wanting him to panic, I pulled out my phone to text him. For what had to be a full minute, I stood in the middle of the aisle staring in bewilderment at the device I had just retrieved from my purse. It was one of those moments like when you first wake up from a really deep slumber and find yourself asking seemingly easy questions, that for several seconds you simply cannot will your brain to be able to answer - things like what day is it? Is it AM or PM? Why do I only have one sock on? - until you are shaken back into reality and the explanations start to flood in. I did know what day and time it was, but the questions I found myself rapidly asking right there in aisle 11 were; Where is my phone? Why did I bring the tv remote to the grocery store? How am I going to text Ryan and tell him I left my phone at home? Luckily, the two items I was in search of are located very close to one another, and I managed to get myself home right before he pulled in, sparing myself from having to recount the whole embarrassing ordeal.

 

The figurative nail in this 'pregnancy brain' coffin happened just a couple of days ago. Sunday mornings are very busy at our house, and I have found that most weeks, it is my worst sickness day. Which generally leaves me with a growling stomach so loud that I know it can be heard from the pulpit, with 15 minutes left in the sermon. This past Sunday was no different, and the moment we were dismissed, I ran to Ryan and begged him to quickly pick a place for lunch. Another couple was joining us and we all decided Applebee's sounded good.

 

Ryan kept saying 'It's close, so it will be quick' and I kept thinking to myself 'It's at least 5 miles away, and the only good way there from here is on a congested road with 10 traffic lights between here and there', but I know that during this pregnancy I have had a tendency to be hangry, so I told myself that I was just being a diva. I offered to leave and go get us a table and meet them whenever they could get there. 15 minutes had passed and I still wasn't to the restaurant, because the other drivers of the world are idiots and wouldn't drive faster than 25mph. At literally my 10th red light of the morning, I grabbed my phone (my actual phone and not the tv remote - thank Heaven for the little miracles) and texted to Ryan: 'Still not there. Traffic is terrible. Just now turning onto the right road.' Seconds later, he was calling me to tell me that he meant the other Applebee's, and that everyone else was already seated and waiting for me, and they would order appetizers. He didn't say this, but it occurred to me that by 'other Applebee's', he meant the one right down the street from church; the one that you can seriously walk to faster than the one I drove to - which makes much more sense now that I think about it.

I am hoping that my brain, and my waistline, will be quick to return sometime around the first of the year. If you see me walking around in a fog before then, offer me some m&m's, a map of the city I live in, and a spare phone to tell my husband what random location you have found me wandering around.
 

5 Commandments Of Interacting With A Pregnant Woman



 1. Thou Shall Not Touch A Pregnant Woman's Belly:

 

I feel that this should go without saying, but apparently, it needs to be repeated. Unless you created me, are one of my sisters, closely share a bloodline, stood up in our wedding, or we are good friends, you do not get to touch my belly. Certainly not without asking first.

Last week, while walking through a public establishment with my sisters and not discussing anything having to do with babies, a STRANGER bee lined to me, put her hand on my stomach, and pointed a finger thisfar from my nose before saying "THIS is a blessing - no matter what it is!" Yeah, lady, I know. What I don't know is your name, why you are touching me, or why I am being scolded by you.

 

I get that people like pregnant bellies. I get it. I like them, too. But never in my life have I thought to myself, "I am going to touch that pregnant lady without asking." If you find yourself wanting to do so, remember the following words from my favorite emperor:

 

 



2. Thou Shall Not Judge What A Pregnant Woman Eats Or Drinks:

I was once guilty of this one myself. I was 23 and in a bar when I noticed the pregnant woman next to me was on her second beer. There was an internal struggle while I thought to myself, "I don't know if I should say something, but I am pretty sure that fetal alcohol poisoning is frowned upon." Taking the low, but still slightly higher than shoving my nose directly in her business road, I quietly judged her life choices and choked my comments down.

 

Not long after my silent judgment, she struck up a conversation with me that eventually led to the topic of her impending motherhood. She touched her belly, took a swig of her beer, and said, "Thank you for being nice about me drinking a beer - my milk production is very low, and my doctor has prescribed two beers a day to help increase my supply. This beer is actually non-alcoholic, but it hasn't stopped others from giving me the stink eye or telling me I am a bad mom. It's a really sensitive subject for me, and I am just trying to make the best choice for my baby." I quickly lied tried to cover my hasty jerkfaceness and said, "Of course! There was no judgment at all!"

 

In that moment, I learned that I do not walk in her shoes, I don't know anything about her medical history, nor am I her doctor, so I am not entitled to an opinion. 

3. Thou Shall Not Comment On A Pregnant Woman's Weight:

I have eyes and I own a mirror - I am well aware that my shape is changing. I have already decided that I shouldn't waddle into open waters while in a white and black swimming suit, or I will be running the risk of being harpooned and sold as a Japanese delicacy. Despite having gained less weight than recommended so far, it is still a touchy subject for me.

 

I appreciate your concern that my baby will be so huge that he will come out carrying a lunch pail, but that doesn't really make a hungry pregnant woman who is high on progesterone feel very good about herself. And it doesn't bode well for your chances of not being eaten by the giant, hungry, hormonal woman.

 

4. Thou Shall Not Compare Pregnancies:

 

I think that it is wonderful that you only gained five pounds your entire pregnancy, while not throwing up once, and sporting your perfect hair/nails/skin/life before your 12 minute labor that resulted in the world's cutest baby who slept through the night from their first day of life before going on to graduate first in their class and cure cancer. What I find slightly less wonderful is your insistence that my pregnancy, child, and parenting should be the same as yours.

 

Believe me, if this process were like picking out a pair of new shoes, I would have picked the shiny red pair that feels like walking on clouds, was clearance priced, and promised to make our offspring a genius. But that's not how this works. You get what you get and you don't throw a fit. Maybe we will get a child prodigy, and maybe we will get a kid who tries to wear his underwear outside of his clothes until he is 14.

 

5. Though Shall Tell The Pregnant Woman How Fabulous She Looks At All Times:

 

Today, I worked on my hair for an hour and still wasn't happy with it. I tried on 4 outfits before settling on something that put my belly front and center, but was comfortable. I vomited all morning, and as I was walking out the door for church, I became light headed and tumbled down two steps, across a sidewalk, and halfway through the front yard. The outfit it took me many tries to find was covered in mud, my ankle was twisted, my knee was bleeding, I had gravel embedded into my hand, and I was relatively certain that I had placed my ever increasing weight directly on my baby when I rolled through the lawn before mercifully coming to a stop.

 

I sat on my front lawn and cried, assessed my injuries, and pulled myself together enough to get to the car. Just as I was starting to really freak out that I had irreparably harmed our baby, he started kicking away. And then I cried happy tears.

 

When I got to church, I headed straight to the bathroom to wash off my muddy clothes, splash my face with cold water, and put on a smile. As I entered the worship space, I was greeted by a hug and a friendly face who said, "You look soooo good! I can't believe you are already over halfway!! I wish I would have looked that good while I was pregnant!" I'm sure she noticed my muddy skirt and blotchy face, but she sweetly chose flattery instead. A small gesture, but one that assured this rookie that maybe, just maybe, I am not a complete failure at childbearing. And most importantly, that my hair is still fabulous :).

Things I Hope Baby Sloan Gets From His Dad: Part 1

This is the start of a series highlighting the traits and talents that Ryan and I hope our baby gets from each parent (and consequently doesn't get from the other parent). Y'all pray for us!

I'm good at a lot of things in life, but I was not blessed with an internal sense of direction. Ryan was. And he is a total map nerd. His 2nd grade teacher even gave him the classroom map at the end of the school year, because every day when he finished his work, he would ask to go look at the map and just stand there and study it. Not much has changed.

 

When we're traveling somewhere in which we need directions, he usually asks me to look them up on my phone's GPS. Really, he just wants the map because the second I say "I've got them", he asks to just look at the map. 14 seconds later, no matter where we are going, how far away it is, or how complicated the route, he hands my phone back to me and says, "I've got it. You can turn it off."

 

The man truly has a sixth sense about where we are, and how to get where we're going, even if it is in a city that we have literally never entered. I'm more of the girl who thinks "we came in from the left, but I don't remember any of the turns we took before then." I did manage to get an A in World Geography, but that's mostly because my teacher made up songs and taught us that Uzbekistan is shaped like an Uzi pistol...true story - go look it up on a map. 

 

When researching tropical vacation destinations, I asked Ryan, "When you are done with that, will you look up the Dominican Republic?" To which he replied, "I'm looking at Santo Domingo right now". I quickly assured him that I wasn't in a rush by saying, "Okay, but when you're done with that, will you please look up the Dominican Republic?" He sweetly smiled, agreed, and mumbled something about ordering me a map while he was at it. In my defense, there was no song about the DR in my 11th grade geography class, nor was there any mention of Santa being from Santo Domingo, or whatever other clever memory trick Mr. Evins thought up.

 

Many moons later, when we had first moved to our new city, I had my trusty phone GPS on voice directions while I was driving to an unfamiliar part of town. She helpfully told me that in one and a half miles, I would need to turn right on Market St. Then in a mile. Then in a half mile. You know the drill. Because I also have no depth perception (I'm truly the worst driver to ever somehow be legally licensed...offer to drive if we ever carpool), I have no earthly idea how far any of those distances actually are. I scanned the street signs, and even thought to myself "Now, I see a Marquette St, but my phone said Market St...guess I haven't gone far enough yet." It turns out that phone GPS systems just don't have the best pronunciation of street names sometimes, and I ended up driving right past my turn. Because I had the most hilarious GPS system ever before that phone tragically died, the navigation lady would get sassy if I missed a turn, and loudly sigh "Uhhh...RE-routing!" which I loosely translate to "Listen to me the first time, you idiot!" I'd like to tell her to learn how to pronounce "Marquette", but arguing with a GPS about her pronunciation just makes me look crazy.

 

When I made a ridiculously quick turnaround trip to drop off a guitar to Ryan at summer camp, he texted me the area of campus where his dorm was located and said "Park in the lot west of the gym." Because he was in a meeting at the time, he couldn't take my call, and because I am trying really hard to not kill all of us while I'm at the helm of a vehicle, I don't text and drive. I do, however, attempt to talk-to-text while I drive, but I can't exactly proofread it. And since the same technology that programs the talking GPS probably also fuels the talk-to-text feature, sometimes the message is lost in translation...literally.

 

So there I was, driving down I-80 at 75mph and I meant to ask "Which side is west?" My phone heard "Which side of the gym?", so Ryan repeated himself by sending another text that just said "West." Still driving and trying not to kill everyone in a 3 mile radius, I couldn't look at my last text to confirm that my phone had said what I told it to say. So I tried again. "What side of the gym?" Ryan's response: "10th St." Helpful, since both parking lots in question are on 10th St. Turns out my phone heard "Which street is the gym?" - not only was that NOT my question, but I would also never ask it with such poor grammar...maps may not be my thing, but (mostly) correct use of the English language is my thing! Driving, more confused than ever, and now irritated that the map nerd I married wouldn't just tell me WHICH SIDE OF THE GYM IS WEST, I threw my phone into the passenger seat and decided I would try again when I got there. All of this was unbeknownst to Ryan, as he never actually received the question "Which side of the gym is west?", I arrived, parked, and saw him walking toward me before I had time to look at my phone. His first question? "Why didn't you park in the West lot?" Ummm, because you wouldn't freaking tell me which lot that was, honey!!

 

A few weeks ago, we found a documentary on Netflix that I can't remember the name of, but it centers around a likeable guy who I think is named Scott and his less likeable college friend traveling the world for a year. The first episode started with them traversing Canada in something like 10 days. Neither Ryan nor I have ever been to Canada, but at each place these guys stopped, whether a major city or an obscure miniature rock desert, Ryan either knew where it was located, had a fun fact to share, or both. I mostly listened, nodded, and smiled. I remembered in the opening scenes that the main guy mentioned he was going to touch the Atlantic at the start, and the Pacific at the end. Thinking he meant that would be the start and finish of the whole year, I spent the entire episode thinking they were traveling from West to East. 53 minutes in, Ryan was sharing that they were really close to Alaska. Not being a map aficionado, but relatively certain that I knew the general vicinity where Alaska lives, my riveting contribution to the conversation was, "Huh. So they're going right to left...right?"

 

I could continue with the examples, but I think I have done a sufficient job of making you think I am an idiot. For the record, I do know which side is west when looking at a map...it's when I have to put it in practice in the world that I get completely turned around. If you need me, I'll be studying Ryan's 2nd grade map...I think I am going to need the extra study hours if I want any chance of helping our kid do his geography homework. In the meantime, if you ever need to know where Uzbekistan is (on a map, not in real life), call me.

How Our Dog Has Prepared Us For A Kid

Before you laugh, hear me out. We don't know what kind of kid we're going to get - could be a miracle baby who self soothes and sleeps through the night, or could be the spawn of Satan...only time will tell. Also, you don't understand how neurotic our dog is. Let me paint a little picture for you:

 

Keeping Us Up At Night:

 

Saturday nights are pretty tame in our house, seeing as how Sunday mornings come very early (with a very busy schedule) for Mr. Sloan. We try our best to be in bed at a reasonable time, especially this past week since Ryan was several days into fighting a nasty cold. Aside from me being up and down quite a bit and Ryan coughing up a lung, our slumber was pretty typical until 2am. At 2am, Mother Nature decided to give us a crash course in what a night with a baby could be like.

 

Being a product of Arizona, I don't do storms. They scare me, and I especially don't like them when it's dark outside. People from the Midwest think that I am exaggerating when I say that at the first crack of thunder or news alert about a watch, I gather up my loved ones and head straight to the basement, where we have several gallons of water, canned goods, blankets, folding lawn chairs, dog food, flashlights, phone chargers, batteries, and a first aid kit. I assure you, I am not exaggerating.

 

In the age old debate of nature v. nurture, Mia is also terrified of storms, but we are not sure if it's due to me teaching her to be scared, or if it's because of her own personal brand of crazy. Back to Saturday night/Sunday morning at 2am, a crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder directly over our house awoke both Mia and I. She immediately came flying off of her bed and started pacing around our bed to see if either of us were awake. Because we are terrible people, when we don't want to get up with her, we play dead. No blinking or rolling or movement of any kind usually rescinds her recon mission and she takes herself back to bed. In a storm, though, no amount of pretending to be lifeless will squelch her fear. Because he's a better person than I am, Ryan dragged his sick self out of bed to put Mia back in hers, cover her up (we know...), and tell her goodnight. That lasted about six seconds, until another round of lightning reared its ugly head. Repeat the above scenario no less than 11 times, and that brought us to 2:45am.

 

Seeing that she wasn't going to stay in bed until the storm had passed, and realizing that we were entangled below the world's slowest moving storm, I cut our losses and took Mia and my comforter into the living room. Our dog has laid claim to just about every blanket in our house, and we have just given up and let her have them. However, she will literally leave her compound of anywhere between four and nine blankets (depending on the day), to lie on a 2" corner of one of our blankets that is dangling on the floor. Using this to my advantage, I cut out the middle man and just settled in on the floor, draped the comforter over myself, offered about 1/3 of my blanket to her, and settled in for a sleepless rest of the night. At 5:30am, I woke up freezing, only to realize that Mia had the entire queen size comforter wrapped under, around, and over herself. She was sleeping soundly, while I was shivering on a rock hard floor...by myself.

Having A Puke-y Floor Licker:

 

In fairness, she is a dog, so I should expect for her to lick the floor...and the trash can...and her own butt. What I did not expect was the amount of vomit I would be cleaning up when we brought Mia into our family. Not only does she vomit all the time, but she does it in the least convenient places. We have mostly trained her to stay off of the carpet, but her new trick is to run into the very back corner of her kennel before heaving. Which means that I, at 4.5+ months pregnant and always in a dress, must crawl into her kennel to clean, sanitize, and dry the tray...avert your eyes unless you want them burned or clawed out Oedipus style. I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say, that there is no earthly way that a tiny human could puke more than our dog.

 

Acting Out For Attention:

 

In Mia's defense, we haven't really given her much attention lately. Between being puke-y myself and Ryan fighting an epically insurmountable cold, she's heard a lot of "Not now/go lie down/we're tired." Because she is a perfect, albeit gross, angel of a dog, she listens. And each time she's told to do so, she retreats to our her blanket fort and patiently waits for one of us to drag ourselves off of the couch.

 

Today, she took matters into her own paws and bit the handle off of a clothes hanger (Before the basket of clean clothes gets put away, I hang my dresses on hangers and lay them across the top of the basket) and played Frisbee with herself. Once I realized what she had done, I took it away from her, scolded her, and told Ryan about her misbehavior. His response? Immediate, guttural laughter. The verdict is in: I'm the bad cop. I felt guilty after I realized how little we had played with her this week, so I let her have the last of my ice cream bar...and 25 minutes later, cleaned up more dog puke.

Is She Fat or Pregnant?

The short answer is: yes.
While nobody has brought this up within my hearing range, I see it on the faces of strangers and acquaintances alike. Their glances turn to stares when they see my burgeoning belly, and the moment we make eye contact, their eyes quickly dart away until my head is turned. I know what they are thinking, because I have thought it many times, too - "I think that lady is pregnant, but it's also feasible that she just ate a burrito the size of a small child for dinner."

 

I've done my best to throw onlookers a bone and touch my belly when I feel their glances. I do so partly for them, but mostly for my own assurance to people that I am not 'just' fat. Which is a little bit ridiculous, honestly. Like being fat is the worst thing in the world?! Can we all just agree that 1.) it doesn't matter what size you are, and 2.) it REALLY doesn't matter why?? Let's worry a little more about not being jerkfaces to each other, and a little less about why someone is or isn't a size 0.

 

Anywho, there is something about the possibility of a woman being knocked up that sends strangers into a frenzy. Since I have been pregnant, nobody has directly asked me about the cause of my expanding waistline (though I was directly asked one time when I definitely wasn't pregnant. Life is cruel). But I can certainly see the question begging to be answered on their faces.

 

In full disclosure, I can see why they have the question in the first place. I literally send Ryan to the store weekly (read: daily) to stock up on boxes and boxes of Magnums - the ice cream bars, not the condoms...obviously. And I have no shame in getting 3 (if you saw me, have some mercy and just agree that it was 3 and not 5, okay?) GIANT plates of crab legs at the all you can eat buffet. My breakfast every morning this week has been a S'mores drumstick and toast with tomatoes - dairy, carbs, grains, and fruit...totally counts as well balanced, by the way. Tonight, I nearly licked my plate clean at the Mexican restaurant after finishing off an enchilada, rice, chips and salsa, and an appetizer thrown in for good measure.

Our baby is the size of an onion (gross!), and I am so hungry all day long that an onion is nearly the only food in the world that I won't eat. Because I've been so sick, I have enjoyed the luxury of stuffing my face hourly and losing weight throughout this pregnancy - I know. I would hate me, too. Sorry. I also know that I mentioned this very thing in my last blog post, but this is the ONE time in my life where I haven't gained weight just by looking at food. Let me celebrate this!

I have a few more things to say on this topic, but it's been like an hour since my last meal and if I don't have an overpriced double caramel frozen treat in the next 7 seconds, I will die. Plus, Ryan has another store trip to make...we're down to 3 boxes of ice cream bars.