Things slowly returning to normal.
At least in terms of the day to day, during school term, routine. Godzilla not quite back to normal kinder hours, but the rest of it – gymnastics, swimming and Monkey Boy’s schooling – are pretty much there.
And I’m getting back into the routine too.
Although, as to be expected, very tired. And … pudgy. Its the only appropriate word.
I’m beyond cuddly, and chubby is just too “cute” – not how I’m feeling at the moment.
And my boobs have gotten enormous. More enormous than normal. Everything has got bigger, but only slightly. A centimetre or two here and there, spread out over my entire body. So nothing fits properly.
Feeling, blergh. I started running pre-Christmas and had to give that up … along with drinking … and am now feeling like some kind of sober, lethargic Michelin Man.
So, I was happily wallowing in my grossness, utilising the advantages of being a fat, grumpy cow that is the wont of all pregnant women (or should be if its not), complete with chocolate and snapping at everyone, when the kids join me on the couch.
“Mummy. I told some kids at school today that you were having a baby. But they didn’t believe me. So I just said that you were but you just didn’t look like you were yet.”
“Uh huh. Great. Um” Oh, dear, how do I explain all this to a seven year old. “Ok, just daddy and I aren’t telling people just yet, because we want to talk to our doctor first and then we can tell people. So, if they don’t believe you, that’s ok, we can tell them later.”
Spent the next 37 minutes dealing with they why’s, why I need to speak to the doctor first, what might happen to the baby, why can’t we tell people, why does the doctor need to know, etc etc why don’t you look like you have a baby in your tummy?
“Actually mummy, you really can’t tell that you have a baby in your tummy. You can’t tell you’re pregnant at all. Except for your boobs. They’re massive!”
Right, um, thanks.