Category Archives: Health

Honey, what’s for dinner? Negotiations.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened. I have a feeling it was something like when you go broke: gradually, then all at once. But somehow our nightly family dinners have turned into one big negotiation session (occasionally escalating into a full-blown hostage situation).

It doesn’t matter what I make. It doesn’t matter how many options I give. It doesn’t matter that it’s Friday and it’s been a long week and I’m so over it and mentally checked out around 3 p.m.

My kids never want to eat the dinner I make them.


Well, I take back that last part. My toddler does have a very specific list of things he’ll eat.



Mac and cheese (but only the boxed, chemically-loaded kind…so help you if you give him a homemade cheesy pasta containing anything that resembles a nutrient).

End of list.

He’s cut out apples and crackers and spaghetti and sausage and eggs and corn and the actual chicken part of chicken tenders. All things I used to be able to get him to eat. He’s worse than when you invite your high maintenance friend over for a dinner party and she’s always on some ridiculous diet and acts like it’s YOUR fault that she can’t eat anything because pretty much all the food in your kitchen contains sugar, flour, gluten, fat, soy, chemicals and everything that makes life worth living.

And my 9-month-old is almost as bad as my toddler. I made the mistake of letting her try fruit and now she realizes what a sham vegetables are and spits out anything that is not fruit.

But I did not ruin my body, and my sanity, and my freedom, and that part of my brain that can remember if I’ve seen this TV episode before or not, keeping them alive and healthy for three years only to watch them starve to death because I dared to give them a well-balanced meal.

So, every night, it goes like this:

Toddler: Mommy, I’m all done.

Me: You haven’t eaten anything.

Toddler: Yeah. Cause I’m all done.

Baby: *sound of mashed peas being spit out*

Me: You need to take three bites of mashed potatoes.

Toddler: One bites?

Me: Three.

Toddler: Then I get Girl Scout Cookies?

Me: No. Someone ate all those while hiding and crying in the bathroom last week.

Toddler: Who?

Me: Don’t worry about it.

Baby: *sound of spoon hitting the ground because she whacked it out of my hand*

Toddler: I can’t, Mommy.

Me: Then you’ll just have to sit there while the rest of us eat.

Baby: *emits tiny Viking warrior princess yell because I shoved more peas in her gaping maw*

Toddler: Can I have raisins?

Me: No…(semi-worried he may actually starve to death)…ok, fine, you can have some raisins IF you eat three bites of mashed potatoes and one bite of meatloaf.

Toddler: Nah. I’ll just sit here then.

Me: (don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t give in) …ok, fine, two bites of mashed potatoes (damn it).

Toddler: One bites.

Me: Two.

Toddler: ONE! *starts crying*

Baby: *grabs jar of mashed peas and dumps it on her head*

Me: Sigh…

Toddler: Where you going, Mommy?

Me: To get raisins. I give up. And to get Mommy some of her Mommy grapes.

Toddler: Do you mean wine?

Me: Shut up and eat your raisins.

Call me weak if you must but feeding your children is a primal NEED. I NEED to feed their whiny little faces. Need it unlike anything I’ve ever needed before. Eat! I internally scream in my head pretty much on a daily basis. Or I’ll die! Eat anything! I don’t care anymore! Just. Eat.

And trust me, I did the hard ass routine. I’d make that kid sit in his chair until he ate all (then, ok fine, three, then two, then one, then how about you just lick it to see if you like it?) carrots. And every time it ended the same way: Three hours later, both of us angry and crying, and exactly zero carrots licked.

So, for all our mental health, I backed off. They both respond better to honey than vinegar (just don’t try to give them actual honey…or vinegar…or food).

Which is how we got here. Sitting around the dinner table. Making complicated and ridiculous mediations like a family of rich people in the midst of a strained but somewhat amicable divorce.

Two green beans for a fourth a cup of yogurt. One BIG bite of rice for the rest of Mommy’s cake. More milk if you finish the chicken part of the chicken nugget. I’ll take the beach house and you can have the Benz.

I hope someday it gets better. And I cling to this hope like it’s the last life jacket on the Titanic.

But just like the Titanic, I know deep down I’m doomed. That dinner will always be some version of this.

At least until they go to college and almost drown in the lukewarm waters of Ramen noodles made in a coffee maker.

Who hates Mommy’s lasagna now, suckers?


I’m a Fitbit person now

Guys, it’s been nice knowing you. You’re all swell, really. But eventually all good things must come to an end. So, while I enjoyed our time together, it’s a new year and time for me to move on. Time for me to leave you in the dust as I walk exactly…*checks wrist* …6,101 steps away from you.

I’m a Fitbit person now.

Yes, dear readers, thanks to my husband and a very merry Christmas, I am now the proud owner of a Fitbit, those magical little devices that shoot laser beams into your arms and let you know just what a lazy sack of human pudding you are on a near constant basis.

What a time to be alive!

Needless to say, I instantly fell in love. There is something weirdly intoxicating about having every single movement and moment of your day logged by a tiny robot who gives you electronic stickers and trophies when you do good (like walking in a circle around your house while eating frosting straight from the container instead of eating it on the couch like some kind of barbarian). I should hate it. The lazy me terrified of Big Brother that I have been for the past 30-odd years should absolutely loathe it. But I don’t.

Because I’m a Fitbit person now.

And don’t worry. It’s not like because I have a Fitbit now that I’m a better person than you or anything.

Except I’m a better person than you now.

Just look at how this divine little watch has improved not only my life, but the life of my family. Our house is now filled with health-conscious conversations such as this:

Me: Guess how many steps I’ve taken today!

Husband: Is it much different from the amount you told me 15 minutes ago?

Me: 879! Wanna know how many times I was restless last night while sleeping?

Husband: I haven’t even had my coffee yet, babe.

Me: You only have yourself to blame.

And this one:

Husband: Hey, can you run upstairs and grab me the tape? I don’t know where you put it.

Me: No.

Husband: Um…please?

Me: I can’t. My Fitbit is charging.

Husband: …

Me: I want credit for walking up the stairs.

Husband: …

Me: You only have yourself to blame.

And this one:

Toddler: Momma, can you carry me?

Me: I wish I could, sweetheart, but then my Fitbit doesn’t log my steps when you’re in my arms.

Toddler: …

Me: You only have your father to blame.

I mean, can I help it that I’m pretty much the healthiest person alive now? I have a resting heart rate of 55, thanks to lugging around two adorable children (who I’m pretty sure are made up of chicken nuggets and quark-gluon plasma, the densest material ever created) all day around the city. And thanks to living on the second and third floor of our rented house, I climb on average 18 flights of stairs a day. Shoot, I burned 43 calories just in the time it took me to eat half of a leftover holiday cheeseball.

And, AND, I managed to get 15,000 daily steps in last Wednesday, enough to earn me the Urban Boot badge, thankyouverymuch. I can’t believe I spent all those years walking around without a computer logging every step like some kind of idiot. What a waste!

Alas, clearly, my family doesn’t understand.

I guess I can’t blame them. I mean, I’d be bitter too if I had never earned the Happy Hill badge or the Weekend Warrior trophy.

But I’m hoping, my dear readers, you do. That you do understand why my health has become my top priority and why I only want to talk to other people who know at any given moment exactly how many steps it took them to walk to Starbucks in their fancy athleisure wear.

So, please, by all means, keep reading my blogs and columns. But if you see me in person, let’s just ignore each other and awkwardly avoid eye contact. Which should be easy enough. I’ll likely be looking at my wrist anyway.

I’m a Fitbit person now.


Have you hugged your nurse today?

She couldn’t have been much more than 100 pounds. Just super petite. Tiny even. This was made even more apparent when compared to my extremely rotund and bloated figure. So when she said “lean your head against my chest and squeeze my hands when the pain hits,” I laughed. And then laughed again. And then the laughter walked right up to the border of hysterical, mostly because Dolph Lundgren’s voice saying “I must break you” in Rocky IV kept running through my head.

But then the pain hit. I gasped and squeezed as hard as I could as the world’s largest epidural needle penetrated where no needle had ever dared penetrate before. And suddenly, Nurse Itty McLittle turned into a rock made of steel and Ryan Reynold’s abs.

Yet her voice suddenly took on the soothing murmur of a grandmother comforting a toddler with a boo-boo knee.

“You’re doing great. It’s almost over. Almost there. You’re doing fantastic, Momma.”

That’s when it hit me. No matter what happened from here on out with the birth of my first child, I was in very good hands. The very good, freakishly strong hands of a caring nurse.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was going to get through this in one piece.

Bringing a life into this world, and the aftermath of that birth, whether you did it the old-fashioned way or via a cesarean, is absolutely brutal. We’re not supposed to admit this, of course. Not in our society. Oh no. Women are supposed to have an 8-pound human exit their body and then continue on their day as if nothing happened (and God help you if you aren’t back to your pre-pregnancy weight the second they cut that umbilical cord). Nevermind that your body has been stretched to the limit physically, mentally and emotionally. Nevermind that you haven’t slept, haven’t ate, haven’t been able to take a pain-free breath. Nevermind that when you tell the lactation specialist, with giant crocodile tears in your eyes, that there is a large amount of blood in your breastmilk when you pump, and her response is “oh, don’t worry, the blood won’t hurt the baby,” and your response is “that wasn’t my concern.” No. Nevermind all that.

It’s time to get over it. You’re a mom now.

I mean, it’s not like you’re a man with cold. Back to work, lady.

Part of the blame for this falls on our society in general, which has made it clear time and time again that we don’t necessarily value mothers or what they do. But another big chunk is simply that when you have a baby, everything becomes about the baby. You, your partner, your parents, your in-laws. All of your collective concern is on the baby. It is tiny. It is fragile. And even though you’ve only known it for 30 seconds, you all love it with such devotion that you would die if anything happened to it.

They’re miracles. Our own personal miracles.

How can a bloody and broken and stretched and exhausted mom body compare to that?

It can’t. Except when it came to the nurses. They’re the ones who saw me. In all the chaos, they saw me. They saw my bloody, broken, stretched, exhausted body and they took care of me.

They, for lack of a better word, mommed me.

This was especially apparent with my second baby. Because when you are a mom, it doesn’t matter if you have another child’s head emerging from your vagina at that exact moment. Your toddler will still ask you to get him some juice.

So when, after getting someone else a cup of juice no less than 1,672 times, someone asks you if YOU’D like some juice? It’s enough to make a crazy hormonal, homicidally sleep-deprived new mom cry tears of joy.

Of course, none of this is to discount what my husband and my mom and my mother-in-law did for me during this time. All three went above and beyond to take care of me, the baby, my older son, my ridiculously needy, neurotic dog and our quirky home with its weird windows and very vocal refrigerator.

I also had a fantastic doctor who got me from Point A to Point “Get This Thing The Hell Out Of Me” with grace and humor and competence.

But it was the nurses, oftentimes working quietly in the background, that need to have the spotlight shined on them.

So many of us new mothers feel we can’t complain or even acknowledge the amount of pain we are in because the gift we get in return is so much greater. And that’s where the nurses swoop in with their invisible superhero capes. They take care of us without us ever having to ask. They know we need tender, loving care even if we don’t.

It takes a special kind of person to be a nurse, I think. The kind of person who you can meet and within 90 seconds has you comfortable enough with them that you let them help you pee. The kind of person who makes you feel like you are their only patient, when in reality they are overworked, underpaid and haven’t had time to go to the bathroom themselves since 8 a.m.

I realize that for my nurses I was likely just another patient that day. But to me, they made all the difference. Their smiles, their gentle hands, their patience, their laughter, their reassurances, their ability to answer my god-awfully stupid first-time parent questions without a single eyeroll. They are how I survived those utterly terrifying first days of motherhood.

So to all the nurses out there, I want to thank you for seeing me. And I want you to know that I see you and all you do.

I see you.

And while I’ll forever be grateful to my wonderful and highly skilled doctor for bringing my children into this world, I’ll forever be grateful to every nurse who graced my hospital room door for bringing me back to life.

35 things I’ve learned in 35 years

When you’re nine months pregnant and busy chasing a sugar-addicted toddler around, certain things are bound to fall through the cracks. The family’s collective hygiene, for one (she types as she tries to remember how many days in a row her son has worn those Spiderman pajamas). Basic human decency, for another (she types while cringing as she remembers yelling “so help me, if you poop in that plant, mister!” while talking to her insurance agent on the phone).

And, of course, remembering important dates, such as holidays and doctor’s appointments and Taco Tuesday. Which is how I ended up ugly crying into my lasagna last Tuesday in a pregnancy-hormone-fueled rage.

And which is also how my 35th birthday snuck up on me.

Having been someone who was always just on this side of obnoxious when it came to celebrating her birthday, this is pretty much unheard of. I mean, I’ve been known to celebrate the day of my arrival on Earth for the entire month. And 35? Sure, it’s not a huge milestone but a big enough one that it makes you question whether wearing blue glittery lipstick is still a good idea or not.

(It is. It always will be. I will be 95 and still rocking it. I will be buried wearing that lipstick).

Thirty-five is also an age when you start to, if not actually become wise, perceive yourself as becoming wise. Which is why instead of celebrating my almost-forgotten 35th birthday with a big bang (it’s hard to dance all night when you are roughly the size of a planet and have swollen hobbit feet), I want to share some of the wisdom I’ve picked up along the way in my 30 plus years of living.

And so, here are the 35 things I’ve learned in 35 years:


  1. Life is too short for uncomfortable underwear.
  2. Your kids won’t remember your muffin top and cellulite. All they’ll remember is that perfect summer day when Mommy played with them in the ocean.
  3. You should never gamble with your health. Drink the good vodka.
  4. Love means never having to say “does this make me look fat?”
  5. When a woman says no, it’s not the beginning of a negotiation.
  6. Have a small wedding and a big honeymoon.
  7. If the Internet comments section has taught us anything, it’s that wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age.
  8. It’s possible to cook without drinking wine. But I wouldn’t recommend it.
  9. Dance like everyone is ignoring you because they’re on their phone watching funny videos of other people dancing on YouTube.
  10. Pregnancy is best experienced looking back from ten years in the future.
  11. Anything can be turned into a pizza topping. It’s our right as Americans.
  12. Apologize when you’re wrong. Stop apologizing for existing and taking up space.
  13. Getting really angry at how slow the line is moving has never, ever made the line move faster in the entire history of line-standing.
  14. Try to live every day with the joy and abandon of a naked toddler who just escaped from his bath.
  15. When it comes to politics, chances are good that the bad guys aren’t the people who have it worse off than you do.
  16. Don’t stress out when your children refuse to eat their vegetables. They will. Eventually. When they have children of their own and are trying to demonstrate how “num-num” vegetables are.
  17. Beer and meat both taste better outside.
  18. There are a lot of horrible problems in the world. A woman wearing leggings as pants is not one of them.
  19. Telling your children no is hard. Dealing with spoiled brats is even harder.
  20. Naps should be mandatory for everyone on rainy afternoons.
  21. The only way to survive parenthood is to develop a good sense of humor and own old furniture.
  22. Never underestimate just how brave you really are. You fight invisible monsters every day.
  23. Never underestimate just how brave your kids are. They fight invisible monsters every day.
  24. It’s nearly impossible to succeed if you’ve never failed, so fail and fail spectacularly. Then cry, get drunk with your best friend and vow to never try again. Then try again.
  25. Spend your birthday doing fun things instead of unwrapping fun things.
  26. Go ahead and have breakfast for dinner, pizza for breakfast and wine for lunch.
  27. You have an opinion. Good for you. It doesn’t mean you necessarily have to share it every chance you get.
  28. Dog fur is the most resilient substance on Earth. No matter how much you use a lint roller, it will still be there on your pants. Even if you’re murdered and dumped in the ocean and found two years later, police will still be able to identify you by the dog hair they find on your pants.
  29. It’s always better to look your age than to look like you’re desperately trying not to look your age.
  30. Some days, I honestly don’t know if love is always stronger than hate. But that’s not going to make me love any less fiercely.
  31. Shelter pets always make better pets.
  32. Oh, just swim and stop worrying about getting your hair wet.
  33. Never trust someone who doesn’t drink coffee.
  34. One of the best jobs in the world is being the Official Boo Boo Kisser to a tiny human with a skinned knee.
  35. Getting older is something to celebrate. Especially when you consider the alternative.

Snot so funny now, is it?

It’s over, people! It’s finally over! Insert high-pitched and highly inappropriate creepy laugh here!

snot laugh

Winter is officially dead. Ha! Burn (freeze? freezer burn?) in hell, you frosty bastard! Or have fun torturing New Zealand or wherever it is you go now. Whatever. I’m not a freaking meteorologist. All that matters is, mild though you were this year, you are now someone else’s problem and no longer able to slightly inconvenience my life with your annoying freezing rain and your wind gusts that hurt my teeth and ruin my already pathetic hairstyle.

In fact, I’m so happy spring is here, I don’t even care that it’s causing me to slowly drown in a tsunami of toddler snot.

Yes, as it turns out, when two people with allergies fall in love and get drunk on the second cheapest wine on the menu, they end up nine months later (or 10 months and 9 days, in SOME cases) with an adorable, tiny, little Poindexter. And for the past three weeks, this certain adorable, tiny, little Poindexter’s face has been covered in gooey fluids. It’s just…everywhere. Like a slow-moving avalanche of liquefied boogers. Like a pint-sized mucus mudslide. Like a miniature green flood that was foretold in some tiny weather Bible for beginning readers.

It’s so bad, in fact, I drew you a picture so you could get the full effect. But don’t worry. I added some fancy yet subtle artist tricks to make it safe for work.

snot censored

But, as disgusting as it all is, I’m not going to complain. Nope. Not gonna. Because I spent pretty much the whole winter complaining about how I couldn’t wait for spring. About how snow and ice were thisclose to driving me into a homicidal rage. About how I would sell my first born for just one day above 30 degrees (I wouldn’t, of course. Calm down. I didn’t even have any offers. But still, it shows you how serious I was).

So, no. No, I’m not going to complain about how whatever is in the air this long-awaited spring is turning my son into Slimer from “Ghostbusters.” Nor will I complain about how it’s damn near impossible to teach a young kid (especially one who just recently learned that a fork is used to shovel food into his mouth hole as opposed to sticking it repeatedly into Mommy’s eye) how to wipe his own nose. As it turns out, you can lead a stuffed up horse to a tissue, but you can’t make him blow.

Nor will I say anything about the time my son sneezed directly into my mouth.


Or about how, although he is clueless as to the purpose of an actual tissue, he did deduce Sherlock-style that mom’s pants make a great place to deposit your snot. (Added bonus, the couch and the dog also work as fantastic snot depositories).

Or even about how he is so stuffed up that when he’s eating, he has to make a vital choice between chewing and breathing because he can’t do both at the same time.

So yes, I won’t complain. Absolutely not. Because it’s spring, you guys! Finally!

I mean, think of all the opportunities this opens up. I can take my baby to the playground again. Where he can exchange his disgusting snot with tons of other disgusting snotty-nosed little kids.

I can take him to the park, where he can more fully breathe in the toxic, pollen-saturated air that makes his face puff up and makes him talk like every stereotypical nerd character from an 80’s movie.

We can have a picnic, where we can hopefully attempt to eat in the few seconds in-between sneezing and blowing our noses and wiping our watering eyes and coughing up pollen.

So, as I said, I will not complain. Nope. Because after a long, dark winter, it’s finally time to stop and smell the flowers.

And then wheeze and hack and sneeze and wheeze some more because whatever is in said flower makes our sinuses go nuts.


My Not Knocked Up Bucket List

You know that game you play where you come up with the title of your autobiography? Like, for example, a few years ago, mine would have been “Why Yes, I Will Have a Fifth Glass of Wine.” Or maybe “And That’s Why I’m Not Allowed Back Into Delaware.” Or even perhaps “The $8.23 In My Checking Account & Other Numbers That Make Me Sad.”

Ah, but how all that was a lifetime ago. Because currently, the working title of my memoir is:

“So, How’s the Pregnancy Going?”

This question is pretty much my life now. Because when you are pregnant, you as a human person no longer exist. You are simply a fetal cheeseburger delivery system wrapped up in a sweaty muumuu. All anyone cares about now is 1. How is the baby doing? (Answer: Fantastic minus the fact she’s kicking my bladder like it owes her money) and 2. When will the baby get here? (Answer: Hopefully before I get to a size that includes my own personal gravitational pull).

Not that I can blame people for only caring about the baby right now. Creating life is a fascinating process. A fascinating, farty, sausage-fingery process. Think about it. Humans go from an egg and a sperm to a mango-sized tadpole who drinks his own pee to a 7-pound ninja who uses your ribs as substitutes for board breaking. I mean, who cares that I have hopes and dreams and fears and regrets and deep thoughts about how a universal love of melted cheese unites all of humanity. None of that matters. Because you don’t care. Because in your eyes I’m just a loud, messy-haired incubator for an adorable infant.

So, to answer your question, the baby is doing great and I have finally entered my third trimester.


Which means I’m almost done!

Only 8,712 more days to go.

Give or take.

And now that I can see the tiny, tiny light at the end of the birthing canal, I can officially start daydreaming about what it will be like when I’m finally not pregnant anymore. Coming up with my Not Knocked Up Bucket List, if you will. Because when you are pregnant, you can’t have any fun. In fact, there are panels of doctors whose only job is to just sit around all day thinking up new ways to make sure pregnant women can’t have any fun.

And so, here are all the things I’m going to do when I’m not pregnant:

Sleep on my stomach. Oh, sweet, sweet patron saint of mattresses, I’m going to sleep on my stomach SO HARD.

Enter a hotdog eating contest. I don’t even really like hotdogs. I just want to eat 74 of them because I can’t right now.

Drink coffee until I’m physically vibrating so hard that I defy the laws of physics and can pass through walls. And then I will bathe in a bathtub filled with Red Bull.

Ride a goddamn rollercoaster while eating day-old gas station sushi. Because I can, bitches.

Drink all the alcohol. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna finish your beer.

Drink all the Diet Coke. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna add some Captain Morgan to your Diet Coke and drink that.

Finally dye my hair any color other than its current shade of “Awkward Warm Honey Orange-ish With Four Inches Of Dark Brown Roots Showing.”

Throw all those stupid, ineffective Tylenol pills into a ceremonial fire during a Black Mass and fill my medicine cabinet with Nyquil and Claritin and Ibuprofen and Aleve and Pepto and Unisom and Benadryl and all the pretty, pretty over-the-counter drugs available to modern man so we never have to actually feel symptoms of anything.

Eat cold cuts in a hot tub. Which sounds gross. And probably will be gross. But who cares? I’m free!


The beauty of pregnancy *fart* *burp* *sob*

I made myself a promise, you guys. A promise back months ago when I was lying sleepily in my husband’s arms discussing expanding our little family. A promise that the next time I got pregnant I wouldn’t complain. Not even a little bit. Because creating life is a beautiful thing. And I should be so lucky to get to experience it all again.

Aaaaaaand then I got pregnant again.

Needless to say, now I consider it a good day if I resist the impulse to set everyone and everything on fire.


And we’re only on week 12.

But no. No, there I go being all negative again. I mean, I’m building a life, cell by cell! If you think about it, the way pregnancy changes your entire body, mind and soul really is an amazing expression of love. Some might say the ultimate expression of love.

I mean, pffft. Who can complain in the face of something that powerful?

It’s just these constant headaches, you know? And the puking. Oi, so much puking. Not just nausea but full-on “The Exorcist” re-enactments (complete with the colorful language). I never had that with my first born. They say that every pregnancy is different. But my suspicion is that they say this because they’re too polite to say the truth (that truth, of course, being that every pregnancy sucks, but each one sucks in its own unique way).

And this one sucks in that “I wake up every morning feeling like I have the flu AND a hangover” way.

But no, no. The whole process really is miraculous. I need to remember that. A mere nine months of some discomfort in exchange for a perfect tiny creature with your eyes and his mouth and tootsies so cute you just have to stuff ‘em in your mouth or else die? Sounds like some pretty good math to me.

Then again, I always did get C’s in algebra. I mean, do you know what it’s like to have to pretend to be human when in actuality all you are at this point is a bloated walking ball of raging hormones and ginger ale? What it’s like to have to interact with other humans when every time you sit down it’s like you got hit by a tranquilizer dart? Like, people expect me to care about ridiculous things like deadlines and bills and basic hygiene when it’s taking all my self-control not to curl up and fall asleep at their feet like some sad, hairless, always slightly sweaty dog.

Not to mention, when you say hello to me now, I can instantly tell you everything you ate and drank that day. It’s the worst superpower ever.

But there I go again. Complaining. I mean, I got my wish. I’m pregnant! I wanted this with all my heart! Or at the very least, three-quarters of my heart! (The other quarter is still mourning the loss of my post-night-night time cocktail).

And just think of all the wonderful upsides to pregnancy. The gigantic boobs that spring up out of nowhere seemingly overnight. Eating steak for breakfast. The knowledge that you have a tiny tadpole/gummy bear hybrid growing inside you. The…um…well, I know I already mentioned the boobs, but seriously, they just become a work of art.

In fact, it almost makes up for all the bosom area soreness and tenderness you also experience. And the industrial strength farting. And the craving for half a gallon of milk even though your doctor told you to slow down with the first trimester weight gain because in all her years as an OB-GYN, your weight gain is, quote, “unprecedented.”

And then there’s the constipation.

And the sausage fingers.

And the having to pee every 11 minutes.

And the uncontrollable sobbing because there’s only one donut left in the box and it looks so lonely and you just wish it had a friend and so you know you have to eat it so it’s no longer alone but you’re already a fatty fat mcfatty face.

So, obviously, as you can tell, this pregnancy is something I plan to treasure. Especially since this one is likely to be my last due to me and the mister being firmly entrenched in the “two and through” baby making camp.

And I look forward to sharing this amazing journey with all of you. Especially those of you who can help chip in for my bail when I finally do lose it and light someone on fire.