With this one (who I have affectionately named "The New Kid"), it was like the exact moment pee met stick (at two weeks pregnant) I gained forty-seven pounds and had to use a hair-tye to keep my jeans closed. I may be exaggerating a tad with the weight gain, but I assure you the hair-tye part is true. For the past 84 days I have vomited every morning while brushing my tongue, usually in the sink (which is super-dooper gross because some of it always gets in that little hole, which makes me vomit again, which leaves me hanging over the toilet with Madelynn standing beside me trying to spit in the toilet while I puke in it, which forces me to use one hand to hold my hair while using the other to keep a screaming toddler at least an arm's length from the toilet, because we always bump heads when we try to spit in the toilet at the same time, which just isn't a very fun way to vomit in case you were wondering. I need at least one free hand to brace myself... ya know?). Two Mondays ago, I spent half of the day face-down on the living room floor, trying to half-snooze while Mads climbed on my head and ate dirt out of the planters.
Between the constant nausea, the total energy zap and the express trip into the realm of "Do you think Aimee is pregnant or just getting really super fat?" I've come to the conclusion that The New Kid hates my guts. Here's a newsflash for ya, New Kid... I don't fucking like you either!
12 weeks. I'm smiling because I avoided the sink-hole this morning. I can't think of a better way to start the day.