Don’t say I only complain about kid #1…

Remember when I was worried I was blowing up like a puffer fish?  That my weight gain this month had dwarfed the weight gain of the previous 6 months combined?  Well it turns out I should perhaps learn how to correctly operate the machinery before I start cursing the results.  Because my weight gain this month?  Exactly what “they” say it should be.  Four pounds.  Not the 13 the clearly misused scale laughed at me about told me I had gained. 

Not that I would have cared necessarily about gaining that much weight.  It’s not really that big a deal to me.  I was only concerned that I would have gained that much weight so rapidly.  I was pretty sure that would not have been good.  I probably would have been in for some kind of lecture at my OB appointment today.  Something about “blah blah blah…2 dozen Mini Eggs at a sitting will probably kill you slowly…yadda yadda…are you just injecting the butter directly into your butt…yip yip…do you not sleep?  when on earth do you find time to eat enough to gain that much weight in 30 days…”

Despite my relief with the weight, I look bigger than most people would guess (I assume…I’m not dumb enough to actually ask people how much they think I weigh).  Here’s where you skip ahead and avert your eyes if you are of the male persuasion.  I have a bigger-than-usual uterus caused by excess amniotic fluid.  Occassionally this can mean something, but my doctor is not concerned because I’m not at the “doctor-concern-inducing” size, I suppose.  At my stage, it should be measuring between 25 and 29 cms (or so I gather from Google-izing my belly).  My gargantuan mid-section is tipping the tape at 33 cms.  That’s a lot of fluid.

I am also currently getting the absolute tar beat out of me from the inside out.  And I do mean currently, as in right this very minute owwie stop it you little pointy-healed jerk (in the most loving, motherly way).  This kid is violent.  She even kicks the doctor repeatedly when he dares to measure my stomach.  She kicks and moves All.  The.  Time.  Like some sort of seizuring toad with ADHD, tripping out on acid.  On a trampoline.  Who hates all my interior organs and everything they stand for.

Last night, as I was complaining to Anonymous Husband about the less than comfortable innard situation, he felt my stomach and felt nothing.

“Daddy must be a calming influence,” he said smuggly.

Right on cue fetupus took both legs, reared back, and kicked him as hard as fetus-ly possible.  It hurt like the Dickens, but so totally worth it.


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