This pregnancy is zooming by. I think because I'm in no hurry whatsoever to NOT be pregnant. I mean... twenty-two weeks? Already? If thirty-eight weeks is the absolute latest I'll give birth then we're talking three and a half months more! How did that happen? I just peed on the pregnancy test yesterday, no? (I also wore this same outfit ten weeks ago and it fit SLIGHTLY... differently.)
Babes weigh just about one pound each now (whoa!) and are the size of spaghetti squashes (cut to WWW shopping for spaghetti squash). They have eyebrows now (awwww!) and speaking of hair... GUESS WHOSE HAIR IS BACK!??? This girl's right here. Having thick hair is a fabulous perk of pregnancy, especially after spending the last three years with bald spots. Not being able to shave my pubes? That's what I call an un-perk.
...Speaking of nethers, pressure is becoming unbearable in the pelvic region. Sitting up is my CrossFit and standing for longer than ten minutes is my Iron Man. Every day I go to sleep feeling like someone punched me in the vagina. And not in a good way.
And yes, that is indeed a hole in the butt of my leggings. I know. Just... don't.
I spent the day with my feet up yesterday after spending Saturday walking the mean streets of Legoland with the kids. For seven hours. I'm pretty sure I'll be taking it easy the rest of summer, which kind of sucks. Yesterday I stayed home with my mom while Hal and my dad took the kids to the the model trains at Balboa Park. Because I was still recovering from Legoland, which, duh, relax you have tenants! And yet? Sigh... I do not like missing out on adventures. Even when I feel like a dead person.
Which reminds me: why hasn't anyone invented maternity socks? Every sock I put on in the morning becomes lost in the folds of my ankle(s) by late afternoon. What's up, sock-makers of the world? What. is. up?
I turn thirty on Friday which feels surprisingly anti-climatic. Everyone I know WENT BIG on their 30th birthdays so I feel like I should at least have an inkling to do the same. Vegas lapdance-alooza? Eh. Party suite at the Chateau Marmont complete with guest list? Hardly. Joshua Tree shroom-fest via convertible Buick? Not. House Hunters International marathon on the couch? Damn girl. You makin' me hot!
Honestly, the only reason we have plans to do anything on my 30th is because Hal's show was nominated for an Emmy and the Daytime Emmys falls on my birthdaynight. So. I get to dress up in something wildly inappropriate and be THAT chick. The pregnant one surrounded by fancy people with fancy drinks who are like, "What is that girl DOING here. Shouldn't she be, like... home?"
And I'll be like, "Yes! But I'm THIRTY tonight! Dirty thirty wooooooo! Lets do shots! Of water!"
And they'll be like, "Bitch, please. You're wearing a Maxi Dress to a formal event."
The only thing less party-appropriate than being "the pregnant chick" in a Maxi (dress, not pad) among formal-attired former supermodels is being "the pregnant with twins" chick. Tripping over her own sobriety down the corridor.
"Oh look, Rebecca and her entourage of fetuses are here."
"Poor Hal. Soon sex with her is going to be like throwing a hotdog... into the sky!"
Get it? Because hallways are... you know... Because after four children... yeah.
for newborn babes
...and next summer
I also realized how expensive it is to buy two of everything. Even if everything WAS on sale. Good thing I have my mom chained to her sewing machine - I'll no doubt be keeping her there for the next eighteen years.
Which reminds me. Nursery curtains are halfway finished and they look SO CUTE you guys (pictures to come). The babies will shit themselves when they see how perfect they are!
Fable is already an incredible big sister, sharing every food item with the babies (read: lifting my shirt and flinging food at my bare belly with her spoon). Pasta, ice cream, even bottles are offered on a daily basis to my belly button, because the babies "look VERY hungry, mama."
What ever does she mean?
P.S. Fable would like you to know that she has babies in her tummy, too.