Yesterday, my husband was sick. Supposedly. No, really, he was. He couldn't eat anything and he kept gagging. It's possible he threw up a little. Sound like anything else? Yeah, pregnancy.
I was not very sympathetic, because that's how I've felt every day for the past four weeks. Try having a little tailed being growing inside of you and having to run at the sight of cheescake and trying not to puke on your child as you give him spoonfuls of the amazingly pungent Rasberry Pear Yo Baby, I wanted to say, but didn't. Instead I very maturely slammed cabinet doors and ignored him. I should not be whining, because I am much better off than some pregnant women who are visiting the porcelain shrine multiple times a day. I am just a tad uncomfortable. A coworker told me it's like being hungover constantly, but without the fun of dancing and margaritas. It's a hangover that I didn't even get a chance to earn.
Sean is better today. I am still pregnant - apparently, the little bean is now the size of a grape. Or an olive in a dirty martini I can't drink. In the last few days, my stomach has been doing very weird things,
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