Will is following me around the house trying to rub my belly and that can only mean one of two things
1) My boobs have dropped to my belly button
2) I’m pregnant
Luckily for me/Will it’s the second option, although I hear the former ocan occur following – but definitely not before- pregnancy.
That’s right we’ve allowed a squatter in to these quarters and I’m 16 weeks prego.
I’m at that awkward stage where I’m trying desperately to push my belly out so I look less like a sorority girl who has been living on keg stands and burritos and more like a respectable pregnant lady who deserves a seat on the train. I can’t say it’s always clear, and Dobble still calls me ‘keg belly.’
Will caught me peanut-butter handed, you can take the girl out of America… ‘
And yes, it was planned. I love that we thought that point would be obvious, you know with the whole being married for 3 years, having a home (ok Abe counts as a home) and even our own washing machine, but everyone from family to friends has asked ‘Was it planned.’ Yes 2014 has been crazy, but not that crazy. We wanted this little squatter and despite a life time of babysitting responsibilities from here on out, we can not wait to meet it.
So be prepared for this blog to evolve in to something less house-y and more mummy. I’ve got big things on my mind now like if we should use non-disposable nappies, how hippy should I go in my birth plan and would it really hurt the child if we give it the middle name Magoo