so far this pregnancy has been typical. and by typical i mean awful. that pregnancy glow they talk about, yeah it’s nothing but your skin becoming an oil slick akin to a 13 year old’s face. fatigue? i laugh in the face of that word. bone-crushing exhaustion is a better description. my day involves me working eight hours, eating every three hours, coming home and eating some more, and then falling into a coma with nightmarish dreams. oh, and the cherry on top of this oily, bloated, acne-ed, sleep deprived mound of flesh: i signed up for this shit.

please, for the love of all that is holy don’t call or email me and laugh knowingly and say “oh you silly child with your ten hour sleep a night, it gets so much worse”. frankly i don’t think i could handle that comment and neither could you. because i will come to your house and kick you in the mouth with one of my swollen feet.

and where is kevin in all this gestational wonderment? doting lovingly on his crazed wife. he has become “that husband” sans rushing out to buy a quart of ice cream and pickles. no, he is a smart man who stocks the fridge with every culinary delight my hormonal body can think of.

now, where did i put that tub of cream cheese and pork rinds?