I’m sorry to trick you. I won’t know the gender of our baby for a little while longer. And I promise to share that news with you when it’s time.
For now, I’m just referring to this fetus as a cow.
And I’m not just referring to it as a cow because of my current size and the way that I feel at the end of this first trimester. No, no. I’m referring to the fetus as a cow because all I consume is dairy.
NONSTOP DAIRY UP IN THIS PIECE.
I was not one of those kids who was raised to drink a cold glass of milk with dinner each night. We drank water. Not because we couldn’t afford milk but because milk is gross unless it’s laced with chocolate syrup.
My grandfather (bless his soul) passed on to me the family ice cream gene, so I have stayed true to that my entire life. It’s no surprise how many pints of Ben & Jerry’s are in our trash. None at all.
And don’t even start me on cheese. I am a woman. Cheese and women go together like… I dunno… something awesome! I love cheese. All kinds of cheeses. I don’t discriminate when it comes to a nice aged fromage.
I can remember scaring my husband when I was pregnant with Jackson. He found me one evening standing in front of our refrigerator downing a carton of milk much like he does beer. Once I released my prey and put the carton down, he looked at me as though I had just swallowed a baby whole.
YOU HATE MILK!
I KNOW! WHAT THE HELL?!?!?!
And now this pregnancy… same thing, y’all. We are buying so many frickin’ gallons of milk, stocking up on ice cream, perusing plenty of cheeses (don’t worry, I know about the soft cheeses… THEY’RE ALL OF MY FAVORITE KINDS THANKYOUVERYMUCH), and living in the refrigerated section of our grocery store.
It’s a cow. Seriously.
You will see me on the news come spring time.
WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO MASSIVE BABY CALF. DETAILS AT 11.
Image via Pinterest.