A couple months ago, Whitney casually mentioned that when I was pregnant in the past, I told her too soon, so she never got a chance to guess. Well not this time. I made her sweat it out nearly 13 weeks before I drove over to her house with a lima-bean-style ultrasound and blurted it out. And she never guessed.
This time, I left plenty of clues for her to find, but she missed them all:
- I see her at least twice a week, and nearly always in that same baggy shirt and drapey sweater. (Trimester 1: hide the bump!)
- I’m never without a snack. Never ever. I eat like a toddler, about every two hours.
- I have quite a pot belly for someone who is training for a half marathon, and it just keeps getting bigger.
- I stopped drinking even on our wild and crazy nights out (though, to be fair, I’m not afraid to put a decoy sangria in front of me for the duration of the evening).
- I am always chewing my peppermint gum (or hurling).
- I’m even crazier than usual (see Container Store tantrum) or my radical haircut.
- I am obsessively reading blogs about moms pregnant with #3 after two boys who ARE (Using Our Words) and are NOT having The Girl (amalah).
- I started accepting bizarre product pitches for infant products I don’t need, that nobody needs.
- I tweet passionately about Cracklin’ Oat Bran.
- When she told me I looked beautiful before our fancy babycenter dinner out, I asked, “am I glowing?”
That’s my big announcement: pregnant with number three. Baby is due in September to excited parents and two fantastic big brothers. Yikes.
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