Week 24 - The Eddie Izzard Edition (With an Extra Dose of TMI)

Pregnancy seems to have turned me into a 13 year old in some ways. I have had the joy of going through my voice cracking again. This is particularly fun when I'm presenting a training session at work, and I'm afflicted by Eddie Izzard's plague. I've also had the Tummy of Satan, and Boobs of Death. Okay, that sounded better when I was trying to go with continuous Eddie Izzard references. If you don't know who Eddie Izzard is, then this post will probably be a bit boring. Or you can go watch Dressed to Kill and laugh a lot. And then come back and laugh with/at me.

But they really are *that* bad. My abdomen is now stretched to the limit of extra skin that I already had thanks to a certain amount of flabbiness. I'm getting faint stretch marks, and my torso is relatively firm all over. Or at least, it seems firm, after a lifetime of being a fat girl. The boobs though? They're really just Boobs of Death. [Hoozin and any other men, stop reading now. No, really, you don't want to know. Just go down to the next paragraph.] They're not tender anymore, thank god. No, just my nipples now. Which have also started leaking...something. Not a lot, just something clear in tiny amounts at a time. But these tiny bits of discharge also become tiny bits of dried stuff stuck in my nipple. Which I need to clean out or they become a crust that leaves nastiness in my bra. [I told you to stop reading. No complaints.] Did I mention my nipples are still overly sensitive? Good times, that.

In other pregnancy ailments, my feet have taken to a weird form of swelling, in which they turn red first and then decide to swell over the tops of my shoes. Nothing within the shoes swells quite as badly, which just makes it look like I have frankenfeet. Ooooh yeah, baby. Sexy. Because the only shoes you can find in 10.5WW look even less attractive than my monster appendages. So I keep wearing the cuter shoes. (And lest you think I'm being vain, the shoes I'm wearing ARE bigger than I normally wear. I just seem to have more swelling by the end of the day than I expected when I bought these.)

Little One seems most active when I first wake up in the mornings, around noon, and in the evenings. In fact, she's kicking a lot right now, which probably has to do with the cookie I just had for dessert. She was also kicking and squirming when I had a bit of a freakout yesterday morning thanks to some work shenanigans giving me a major headache and anxiety. So, now I know, anxious momma = unhappy baby. Nothing else she's done has been hard enough for Andy to feel without a hand pressed close to me, but I guess that just means I need to have Tea and Cake before bed. Because Cake or Death isn't hard to figure out.

In a rather squee-inducing moment last Friday, my mom and sister sent me a care package full of adorable baby clothes. Little pajamas with tiny feet on them. Soft sweaters and shirts with rosettes on them. Outfits of pants with coordinating hoodies. But you know what those f*ckers did to me? They included an In-N-Out bag. An empty bag. A bag which didn't even give me the luxury of a quick whiff of a double-double that someone would have eaten a week ago. Why did they include an empty torture bag? So I could torture other people at work who know what In-N-Out is. Mission accomplished, one person has been tortured. Except that person is me, and now I want a double-double animal style with a chocolate shake even more than I already had. If I get really desperate, I can always pay $300 for a ticket to go out to California and get my fix. And I guess I could see them too. Those f*ckers.

Another sweet thing in the package was a pair of books that a family friend got me in Hungary. I had meant to pick up a couple, but couldn't find anything I liked when I went last spring. So now I have a bath time book about a whale, and a board book about a cow. Eventually, I can teach Little One some Hungarian, but instead of phrases like "La chat est sur la chaise, et la singe...ou est le singe?", she'll get "A macska van szekon, es a majom...hol van a majom?"

By now, Little One is over a pound and a quarter. The sicker part of me thinks of that and goes, hey look, that's the same as the packages of ground turkey we get at Costco. Thanks brain. You just had to go there, didn't you? She's also too big to be described in the produce section, but apparently the folks at What to Expect have never heard of eggplant or any of the other 9 inch fruits or vegetables roaming the supermarket. Whatever the actual size, she's big (according to the Tummy of Death). Her face is almost fully formed, and she has a complete set of eyelashes and eyebrows. She might have a bit of hair, but apparently, there's no color right now. Cross your fingers for red hair, everybody! I want a red-headed daughter who looks just like her daddy.