I've gained around fifteen pounds so far. Most of it in my ass. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was carrying twins back there: a baby per ass cheek. That's the way it always goes with me. My ass wants to be big so badly. And not in a Kim Kardashian/J Lo KAPOW kind of way. In a big, broad, shoulder blade to backs of knees, wide load kind of way. You think I'm exaggerating but you'll note how the photo is framed. I'm no dummy. THIS photo may be in circulation but I've got to draw the line somewhere.
We should be learning the baby's sex within the next two or three weeks, depending on when they schedule the ultrasound appointment. Our midwife works in conjunction with a hospital and we like finding out whether it's a boy or a girl so we'll head over there to see just who's growing in there and make sure everything is A-okay all up in my guts; all arms and legs accounted for, that kind of thing.
I've been going to the gym lately in an effort to keep my muscles from disintegrating, keep my arm skins from flapping around like a flag in a hurricane. Thirty minutes on the elliptical and some very light weight lifting. So that's good. I don't think I stepped foot in a gym during my previous pregnancies so I feel like an Olympian when I leave the joint. And I went back to blonde. Which feels more like me than any other color. I need to just leave my damn hair alone. I keep going brown on a whim because Oooh, exotic. Cut to five months later when it's the color of a dirty New York City street rat and I feel really shitty about myself and I'm not sure why until I go back to blonde and realize, Oh. I don't really like being brown all that much.
Serge is really annoying me lately. And likewise, I'm sure. I don't know if this is because of the pregnancy hormones or if he is behaving in a way that legitimizes my annoyance but there it is. Thank God for our office because he spends most of his day working there and I've been writing from home. Could you imagine if we had to share a home office? Some kind of desks pushed against each other sitcom-ish scenario:
ME: DO YOU HAVE TO HIT THE KEYS SO HARD WHEN YOU TYPE?
ME: I CAN STILL HEAR YOU BREATHING.
ME: YOUR NOSE IS WHISTLING.
ME: ARE YOU WEARING COLOGNE? IS THAT YOUR DEODORANT? WHAT IS THAT SMELL?
On second thought, maybe I'M the annoying one. But I'll just go ahead and blame it on the pregnancy hormones. Yeah, that's it. It's the pregnancy hormones.