Obeying the law

I'm having one of those days weeks fortnights where I wish I had not created the first commandment of Loretta's Vendetta: Thou shalt not blog about work. Because y'all, I could make you laugh, cry, and shriek with horror all in one post.

I feel like my life outside of work has been temporarily (I hope) sucked dry, leaving me with nothing even remotely interesting, humorous, or inspirational to say. I am tired, irritable, and my back hurts.

Please send cheeseburgers and earplugs.

I Think That's What They Mean by "Pregnancy Brain"

Hairstylist: So have you had a shower yet?

Me: :wondering why hairstylist is inquiring after bathing habits:
Um, I took one this morning...

long, awkward pause

Me: Oh, a BABY shower!

Considering how the prior fifteen minutes had been spent discussing pregnancy, this sort of shower makes much more sense.

Happy Half-Baked Day, Cleitus!

I haz a belly! And it's almost as big as my butt!

And now I would like to discuss pregnancy shirts. Not maternity shirts, but pregnancy shirts which in some (generally inane, overly cutesy) way allude to the mama-to-be's condition. While I certainly don't think pregnant women need to walk around in mu mus or billowing empire-waist shirts to disguise their ever-expanding mid-section, the modest part of me doesn't really find it NECESSARY to broadcast the growth with actual words. In fact, I might go as far as calling it tacky. So there.

All this brings me to my promise of a picture of the MOST AWESOME CHRISTMAS GIFT EVAH. And by awesome, I mean that I was filled with awe. But not the good kind. More like the kind that I deemed necessary to conceal in order to be a gracious recipient.

Sadly, the ubiquitous glitter occludes the writing under the "BABIES RULE" slogan, but imagine lots of descriptive words about babies that are also written in silver glitter. When I went to the store to return this shirt the clerk was having difficulty because apparently the exact same shirt had been returned at least once in the past. Fancy that! I do hope that by sending it back this shirt will one day find it's true owner who is most likely 15 and four months pregnant without even realizing it.

What, That's not Romantic?

Victor: I was thinking Friday night we could have date. Whatever you want. We could go to dinner or go see a movie...

Me: Okay, I want you to clean the office while I lounge on the bed and give you instructions.

It's Been a While

Since I've shaved my legs. And more relevently, since I've written anything.

The holidays were wonderful, I'm glad we've entered the year our baby will be born, yadayadayada.

More posts will be coming soon. Along with a picture of the Worst. Christmas Gift. Ever. Stay tuned!

16 Week Letter

Dear Cleitus,

Ever since we found out about you back in September, I'd had a feeling that you were a girl. I chalked my feeling up to women's intuition and felt validated by the scores of other people telling me they also thought you were a girl.

Well babe, I can tell you now that women's intuition = FAIL. You're a BOY!! And we are so, so excited. The ultrasound technician made the mistake of showing us your boy parts right away so we then had to wait for an hour before we could share our joy with our families. The whole time I was thinking, "Who cares about his KIDNEYS? I want to tell everyone about his PENIS!" However, I'm happy to report that your kidneys, along with everything else, also look great.

I'm sure you are relieved to learn that I will not be posting a picture of the "proof" that you're a boy on the interwebs. Oh no, I'm saving that picture to show at the rehearsal dinner the day before you get married. (Just kidding). (Maybe).

Even though I had mentally prepared myself for a girl, I get more excited every time I think about you being a boy. Little boys and their mommies have such special bonds and I can't wait to watch you grow up and see what you will become. You will have such wonderful influences around you that will teach you about how to be a good, smart, Godly man. Your daddy is itching to sing you songs about calculus, physics, and school you in Carolina basketball while your grandaddies are likely scheming to teach you the fight song for NC State, just to spite us. Your uncle Jordan has promised that you will know all about Western harmony. You'll learn loyalty and generosity and strength from all the men who you are lucky to have as family.

And as for me? I'm going to love you with all my heart, no matter what. Even if you do become a State fan.

Love,
Mama

Nobody's gonna go to work today, she's (or he's) gonna make them stay at home

This morning, as I was leaning over the toilet, trying to evade the vomit that was splashing back up at my face, I learned something about my preshus wittle fetus. Cleitus does not like Mondays.

(As an aside, Frosted Mini Wheats are one of the least offensive foods to puke up, semi-digested.)

(Also, I have a strange love of catchy ballads about psycho chicks killing innocent children. Don't judge.)

I don't particularly like Mondays either. When I was a kid I'd play feel horribly sick on Mondays more than any other day of the week. One time my mama remarked to me that my (fourth grade) teacher was going to think I partied every weekend. (Sorry teach, couldn't make it yesterday, that seventh Capri-Sun was making me pay). I'll even confess that maybe I've taken more mental health days on Mondays than I should have in my adult years.

But now, in my pregnant state, I don't have to pretend because my fetus is making me sick. My baby is already taking after me! Oh shit joy! However, unlike in elementary school when you could miss up to 30 days of school without any major repercussions (I kept track), my company only gives me six sick days each year. There are WAY more than six Mondays in a year people!

Which leaves me wiping the puke off my face, trying to brush my teeth without setting off another episode, and trudging off to work with a look of martyrdom on my face. And making a mental note not to leave the room when I take my kid's temperature. Because I totally knew that trick about how to fake a fever.