Psychic Block

Back in college, I noticed a strange phenomenon that I had.  After a particularly grueling week of tests and/or papers, my brain kind of shut down the next week.  I couldn’t motivate myself to do any thinking.  I couldn’t read; I couldn’t study; I couldn’t write.  God forbid I had to do anything that next week because I would have to pull from the very depths of my being to do Any.  Thing.  After a few weeks of this habit, I realized what was going on.  I called it my Psychic Block. 

I learned to work around it.  I manipulated my classes and work to compensate.  I vegged the weekend after a hard week, so that I wouldn’t fall into the malaise the next week at work.  It’s why I demanded to go honeymoon somewhere we had already been.  Even now, the Psychic Block pops up a day after a hard day of mothering.

As I talked to my BFF the other night, I realized I had another Psychic Block on my hands.  I can’t bring myself to read hours and hours of blog post like I used to.  I love my favorite bloggers.  I love reading about their lives, their dreams, their families.  I often think of them as friends.  I love reading new people.  I love learning from all these amazing people.  And yet, for the last couple months, I can only force myself to read a little at a time.

And there’s a reason.  Some of you might remember me talking about fighting demons.  And I still am.  My marriage is on the rocks, hanging by a thread, deep in a coma.  And when I read about my favorite bloggers and their happy lives, it hurts my soul.  I think I might be jealous.  Happy for you all but jealous. 

I don’t want to go into it too much now.  I’m sure I’ll talk about it when I know which way it is all going down.  I’m trying to take responsibility for my end of things.  I’ve realized I’ve made mistakes, and I’m fixing them.  I’m realizing how much I love my husband and how much I would like our marriage to last.  But it might not work out.  He doesn’t know what he wants, and he has inflicted severe damage on our relationship.  I do know if we stick together, we’ll have to reinvent our marriage and work on some major defects in ourselves.  I’m ready for the challenge; he’s not. 

Every day I wake up alone to a baby cooing and two boys playing, waiting for me to feed them and take care of them, waiting for me to give them the signal to jump on the inflatable mattress their dad sleeps on in the home office.  All day I play the happy mother, trying to keep myself from getting locked in my head, remembering good and bad memories, playing future good and bad scenarios, analyzing his ever word and action, questioning his motives, crafting a thousand speeches.  Like I said a couple of weeks ago, there’s all kinds of crazy in my head.  On top of that, I’m trying hard to keep myself sane and healthy and becoming better than I am.  Every night I fall asleep alone listening to the sounds of baby breathing and praying for answers, strength, and wisdom.

So my friends, don’t give up on me.  I’ll get around to reading and commenting more and more.  Every day is a new day.  And a Psychic Block does not live forever.

Thoughts on my 30th

I’m a pessimist.  Therefore I see problems first and then come up with solutions.  Unfortunately, I usually come up with one solution, and if it doesn’t work, then I keep beating it against the problem, hoping that it’ll work.  It usually doesn’t.  I call this my box theory.

I’m co-dependent.  Which really sucks.  And I’m praying that I don’t have to go to Co-Dependents Anonymous for the rest of my life.

It’s not normal not to want me time.

I need to actually reach out and make friends.  Which I’m doing, like having coffee with a mom friend or lunch with my sister-in-law because she’s that cool.

I need time alone with The Husband.  I kind of forget how important that is.

I really do miss date nights.

I miss not being responsible.

So if I’m juggling motherhood, marriage, friends, me-time, and housework, when am I going to write?

I need to break out of my planning-box every once in a while.

The blogs are where I go to have friends and realize what is normal, like needing time alone and kids putting things in their butt cracks.  You guys rock my world.

Maybe I should stop making New Year Resolutions and make Birthday Resolutions.

Self-examining is f-ing hard.  It hurts my head.  It hurts my heart.  But I’m still surviving.

I am the phoenix.

Things get sticky

Weeks went by.  SP moved into the condo; I moved into my apartment.  I took the desk from the condo, which I turned upside down and threw down two flights of stairs because it was easy and C wasn’t home.  I accidently started dating the rare 20 year old virgin, which led me to take refuge at the condo with SP, Best Friend, and Tough Chick as the virgin called fifty times a day even after I explained that I didn’t get home until 10pm because of work and school.  He didn’t listen; my roommate wanted to kill him; and he tried to choke me with his tongue when we kissed.  That was a week old romance.

Not long after the mutual break up, C threw another party at his condo and invited the whole group.  We went because the underage and the broke of our circle could score booze.  I went because I was the DD, since I still flirted with being Straight Edge.

As I stood at the breakfast bar, watching my friends pour drinks, as I sipped my soda, C came up and started talking to me.  His friends sat on the couches not to far from us and started chanting “Rudy.”

Me: What’s up with that?

C: They think I look like Sean Astin from Rudy.

Me: Oh.  I never saw that movie.  (But for the record C totally looks like Sean Astin.)  So why do they keep chanting?

C: Because they’re jerks.

Me: Oh.  Figures.

C had to leave me and go mingle with the crowd.  The man could work a room.  His Best Girl Friend slide up next to me and grab the bar for support as she swayed.

BGF: Have you met my friend C?

Me: Yeah.

BGF: No.  Have you met my friend C?

Me: Yeah?

Luckily Tough Chick swooped in and saved me, but when ever I was alone, the scene with the BGF repeated itself.  After a couple hours, it was decided that most of the group was ready to go.  Except Loose Canon and Tough Chick.  They planned to stay the night, and so I took Loose Canon’s car and drove everyone home.

The next day near noon, the phone rang.

Me: Hello?

Tough Chick: Fae? Are you sitting down?

Me: No.

Tough Chick: I think you should.  We have a problem.

Me: What?

TC: (Sigh) Loose Canon f-ed C last night.

Me: WHAT?!

TC: Yeah.  She waited until he was drunk and tired enough to go to bed.  Then she went into his room five minutes after he did and attacked him.

Me: So she raped him?

TC: Um, he’s a guy.

Me: If roles were reversed and a guy waited until a girl was drunk and tired and then attacked her when she went to bed, we would call that rape.

TC: I guess you’re right.

Me: So how did C take it?

TC: He’s a guy.

Me: Right.

TC: But he feels guilty because he’s 30 and she’s 21.  He feels like he took advantage of the situation and plans to take her out for dinner.

Me: Took advantage of the situation?  She jumped into his bed.  Wait, did you even see her talking to him at all?

TC: No.  She was nursing a beer in the corner the whole time, not talking to anyone.  C mainly talked to you when you were there. 

Me: Ok, she’s creepy.  And she’s totally going to f up us all up with hanging at the condo.

TC: She just laid him.  Tomorrow things will be normal.  We’ll all move on.

Me: Loose has never “just” laid anyone.  She falls in love with each and every guy she’s banged.  She confuses sex with love even with the one night stands. 

TC: Unlike you.

Me:  Me?  Yes, I can separate love from sex.  Personally, I prefer it that way.  Men are meant t be used.  When did Loose start eyeing C anyways?  I thought she thought he was scuzzy.

TC: That was before the night of your big date with the virgin-

Me: Shut up.

TC: And we all went bowling.  C was dressed nicely from work and we learned he owned a million dollar business.

Me: Money sings to OC chicks. 

TC: So what are you going to do as the official “mom” of the group?

Me: Crap.  I guess I’ll talk to her tomorrow before class and make sure she understands what an f-buddy is.  I just wouldn’t hold my breath.  At least I’m out of here on Wednesday until Sunday.  You still picking me up from the airport?

And yes, the next day, I did talk to Loose Canon, but it did no girl.  All week she spoke of C with that puppy-love voice.  Always mentioning how she stayed that night with him.  I was glad to get out of the drama.  Except it was waiting the moment I got back.

I slid into the Tough Chick’s car on Sunday.

Me: Thanks for waiting.  Stupid terrorists f-ing up my airports and planes.  I’ve been waiting for two hours to catch the shuttle to get here.

TC: No problem.  I was on a phone call with an old friend and didn’t notice the time.  I might have left your ass.

Me: Which would have sucked since I don’t have a cell phone.

TC: Which you need.

Me: But don’t have the money for.  Besides what’s the point?  So how are you?

TC: Good.  But we have more issues.

Me: What now? 

TC: Loose Canon left her toiletries and an outfit at the condo in C’s room.

Me: WHAT?!  Who leaves their crap at their f-buddies house?  I dated the ex for two years and never left a single hair tye at his dorm.

TC: No sh-.  So C saw that and lost it and told SP to tell Loose to get her sh- out of his room.  And I’m pretty sure that short-lived relationship is over.

Me: Great.  And how does C feel about SP and her friends now?

TC: Well, he likes me.  Straight guys love lesbians.  And he keeps asking when you’re coming back.

It started with an ad

I was 21 and on top of the world.  I had a great class schedule, job, friends, and all I needed was my apartment to open up in a couple of weeks.  Until then I was crashing on a friend’s futon in her one room apartment with her and her best friend.  I just had to walk a mile to and from school. No big deal, even if it was 10 o’clock at night. 

Good Friend was just that when she heard that my apartment wouldn’t be ready for a month after school started.  She looked at me and said, “A month isn’t that long.  Stay with me.  As long as you like my best friend Tough Chick.”  Luckily for me, Touch Chick and I got along like two peas.  Not only did Tough Chick move down that year, so did another friend of Good Friend, SP.  Unfortunately SP brought drama with her like it was luck.

Less than a week into school, SP was still crashing at a random friend’s place and her search for a permanent place was getting desperate.  And she wanted to crash with the Good Friend, Tough Chick, and me.  Four girls and one bathroom is not a good combination, even if some of us were low maintainance. 

Thursday night we decided to all go to dinner together after I got out of class.  I was poor, so Good Friend was insisting on taking me out to get a few vegetables in me.  A common goal for her.  Joining us was Loose Canon, a close friend of mine who was also SP’s upperclassman buddy through a church organization. 

That Thursday I walked into a hornets’ nest of drama when I opened the door and walked into an overly stuffed apartment.

SP: (whining) But what am I going to do?

Me: (whispering to the Tough Chick) What the hell is going on?

Tough Chick: SP found another room to rent, and the owner wants her to look at it tonight.

Me: And the problem is . . . ?

SP: (whines) I want to go to dinner with you.

Tough Chick and I rolled our eyes together.

Good Friend: Just call him and see if we can all come.

SP: Really?

Me: We could always wait in the car.

SP: No.  No, I want your opinions.

Loose Canon: Of course!  It is two guys that live there.

Tough Chick and I rolled our eyes again.  SP called the owner on the phone; while I slipped on a pair of jeans and my college sweatshirt.

Tough Chick: You know, it’s still like summer out there.

Me: I’ve been freezing my ass off in the business building.  I need to get warm.  And, this ain’t real summer, Northern Cal.

Tough Chick: Excuse me, Arizona.

Ten minutes later, five college girls were trumping up the stairs of a condo.  SP and Good Friend were in the lead.  Then came Loose Canon.  Tough Chick and I were still trying to convince them we could wait in the car.  SP knocked.

A guy, who looked only a few years older than us, opened the door and gave us a friendly greeting.  He had short brown hair, spiked up, and glasses.  He wore a tank top with three frogs behind three shot glasses, Jim, Jose, and Jack.  He ushered us in where a guy with long hair was watching TV on the biggest TV I had ever seen.

I closed my eyes and listened to my instincts.  It was something I was relearning to do with the help of my counselor.  “Fae, you have great instincts.  You get in trouble when you don’t use them.”  My first instinct was these are good guys.

The guy: Hi!  I’m C.  That’s S.  (S. looked over his shoulder smiled, nodded, and gave a half-ass guy wave.)  Would you guys like a German chocolate cake shot?

We said our no thank you’s and introduced ourselves.  C proceeded to show us around.  There was a poker table near the front door.  In the family room area, there were two more couches and a huge L-shaped desk with a computer. 

C: Don’t mind the pink carpet and tile.  That came from the last owner.

He led us upstairs to the room for rent.  There was a student desk and a futon frame.

C: The furniture is yours if you want it.

Good Friend: Fae, you could use a desk, right?  I mean, you don’t have any furniture.

Me: I have a bookcase.  But yeah, I could use a desk.

Loose Canon: Could she put a deadbolt on her door if she wanted to?

C: Um, sure, if she wanted too.

Tough Chick and I rolled our eyes.

C led us downstairs.  SP and Good Friend went upstairs to confer.

C: So.  I don’t remember any one’s names.  What if I learned your majors instead?

Loose Canon: Organizational leadership.

Tough Chick: I’m not in school.  I came down here to get into the sherif’s department.

Me: Creative Writing.

C: That’s interesting.  What do they teach in creative writing?

Me: To write creatively.  It’s a fake major like organizational leadership.  I could buy it for 500 bucks in the mail.

I smiled.  He smiled.

SP: So, I’ll think about it and call you.

C: No problem.  You have my cell.  Hey, if you guys are interested, we’re having a bar-b-que here this weekend.

Good Friend: Thanks.  We’ll think about it.

It was a half an hour later, and the conversation revolved around the room for rent as we ate dinner.

SP: On the positive side: It includes, internet, satellite, HBO, and a maid service every other week.  It’s a nice size room and a garage space.  I can have friends over; he doesn’t have a dozen cats or a kid.  They both seemed nice.  But then I’d be living with two guys.  And I’m sharing a bathroom.

Me: It’s a guy how much bathroom space and time could he take?

Loose Canon: I say no.  Why risk your safety?  You don’t know these guys.

Tough Chick: Loose, you’re crazy.

Me: Trust me.  They’re good guys.

SP: Maybe we should vote.

Good Friend: Yes, you won’t get a better deal.

Tough Chick: Yes.

Loose Canon: No.

There are times when we make a decision, a small one, and it changes everything.

Me: Yes.

SP: Ok.  I’ll call him now and tell him.  Thanks, guys.

Learning and relearning this week

  1. I am not superwoman, and I need to rest.
  2. Breastfeeding is hard . . . . at first, but more on that in another post.
  3. Nothing is more sweet or dangerous than big brother love.
  4. The best meal you’ll ever have is after you give birth.  Even if it’s a plain cafeteria turkey sandwich. 
  5. The Husband and I have very different ideas on what a “clean house” means.
  6. The Husband and I have very different ideas what is grocery shopping, what a list should include, and how much money to spend.
  7. My breasts need to be informed that I did not give birth to triplets and should stop producing milk as though I had.
  8. When one child pees the bath and I replace the water, I do not care if the other one pees in it; I just add more water and soap.
  9. It’s ok to ask for help.  It’s ok to ask for help.  It’s ok to ask for help.
  10. No matter how many babies you have had, you will always check to make sure that newborn is still breathing several hundred times a day.

Sushi and Pregnancy

Back in the days when I was pregnant with Evan and working and the economy was rolling, The Husband and I ate out about three dinners a week or more.  Our favorite was sushi.  We had a neighborhood sushi restaurant with the most amazing rolls like an awesome dynamite roll and my favorite a killer spicy tuna roll.  We probably went at least once a week from the grand opening on, and yes, we got to know the owner quite well.

But then I was pregnant.  And all those books and websites said NO SUSHI.  And that lasted about two weeks when I learned The Husband felt no moral obligation to give up sushi as well.  (Bastard.)  So we returned to sushi.  My beloved sushi, how I missed you.  For several months, we did well and only ordered the cooked stuff.  We feasted on crab, shrimp, scalloped and the occasional cooked fish.  But in time, my beloved spicy tuna handroll began to call me again.  I gave in to its spicy yumminess.

For The Husband’s birthday (when I was 36 weeks), I surprised him with a huge sushi party platter custom made from our favorite sushi place and a few friends.  As I indulged, I forgot that one of our friends worked for my OB/GYN.  Ok, I didn’t forget.  I just wasn’t sneaky enough.  She caught me.  And lectured me.  Damn.

So the next doctor’s appointment, The Husband felt the need to confess.  (Which is odd, because he’s not the Catholic one.)

Doctor: So any questions?

The Husband: Yes, one.  Well, and a confession.

Doctor: Oh?

The Husband: Well, um, we, Fae has been eating sushi, and we were told that was bad for the baby.

Doctor: The reason we don’t want Fae eating sushi is because of the danger of food poisoning.  If you go to a reputable place, there shouldn’t be any harm.

We sighed with relief.

Me: So, sushi tonight?

April 9th Friday Recap

I’m really enjoying these weekly top 10 things I learned this week.  I hope you are too because I don’t see myself getting bored of them because I figured out how to do theme ones when I run out of 10 things.  Though I am running out of catchy titles.  Blame it on the lack of sleep (and the Damn black eyes I’m developing).

  1. Making chocolate nests for Easter is a lot harder than it looks.  Because it’s hard to mold the liquid chocolate and chow mien noodles.
  2. The best part of chocolate nests is to snap off the jelly beans and eat just the chocolate; next year it’ll be Jordon Almonds.
  3. Nice day + nice clothes + four boys + pool = 4 wet boys in nice clothes  (Yeah I should have seen it coming.)
  4. The more my grandma tells me about her mother, the more I’m in love with the woman and I wished I had met her.
  5. If I want The Husband out of bed, I should send in two tornado alarm clocks.
  6. Sean is still insisting on Kit Fisto for the baby name; we figured out a name that would use Kit as a nickname.  Either Sean’s a good sales man or we’re suckers.  (But it’s not set in stone.)
  7. Evan has learned to scream like a girl at first sign of trouble.  And I’m a little embarrassed by it.
  8. I now have a killer meat sauce for spaghetti.
  9. Two weeks out from the due date, The Husband starts turning into the Perfect Husband.  It’s weird.
  10. There are some conversations I have to have over and over with The Husband.  They are usually about bills.

And a bonus:

  1. My readers rock my world.

When did I get old enough

Maybe it’s me, but . . . .

When did I get old enough to have a mortgage?  The most expensive thing I’ve ever bought was a pair of Doc Martins.  Right?  Wait, there’s the car, the health insurance, the car seats, the furniture.  It seems like a dream.

When did I get old enough to be married?  Even on good days, I wonder why on earth would someone say he wanted to be with me for life and me with him.  Sure, I was in love before, but this is so adult and complete.  Obviously we were crazy.

When did I get old enough to have kids?  Granted, I could have had them in my teens, biologically speaking, but still.  I’m trusted with the care of two young children.  Two sweet, innocent, fragile children that drive me up the wall half the time.

In fact, when did they both start turning into little boys?  It feels like yesterday they were just babies.  Evan will be in kindergarten next year, and Sean is asking to go to school, talking in clear sentences, and picking out his clothes.

At this rate, they’ll be in college before I know it.  When did I get that old?  Someone had me a paper bag, please.

These Final Days

I’m days away.  My mom is over the moon.  I’m quite hesitant.  The Husband is nonchalant. 

In these last days, I realized we’re woefully underprepared.  We still don’t have a name.  The bills are due, and I’m the only one with all the passwords to pay them, and I’m waiting on the paycheck.  Not to mention, my doctor’s office would prefer if we prepay so that we don’t have to worry about the bill after the baby.  We still owe a couple hundred dollars.  I finally dragged The Husband to the hospital so he knew where it was, but he was on the phone the whole time there.  I’m hoping backtracking will stick in his mind.  I still don’t have a take-home outfit or a baby book or a new cover for Evan’s old seat, since over four years can really wear out denim.  I need to finish the receiving blankets I started.  I have to wash the stroller cover.  I have to finish washing the baby clothes, but I need to put the clean ones in something.  I know.  Details that I shouldn’t worry about.

But in the last days, if I sit in one place for five minutes without eating, I fall asleep.  So if any of my posts don’t seem to flow as well or don’t make the same amount of sense as they used to, it’s because I fell asleep in the middle and sometimes had two naps during a writing session.

Since I’m falling asleep, I’m behind in my blog reading and commenting.  And doing the monthly budget, but we won’t talk about that.  I miss reading on my bloggy buddies.  I look forward to reading everyone off my phone, which I did last week, but I miss commenting so you know I was there. 

In these final days, I’m sore.  My hips are sore.  My feet are sore.  My thighs are sore.  My butt is sore.  Really?  My butt?  I never had that happen before.  I’m searching for stretches to loosen those muscles up.  But nothing to kick in labor.  As I mentioned before, I’m hesitant.

In these final days, I realize my patience is wearing thin.  And that my kids can’t to do anything without me telling them a dozen times or yelling.  Oh, and Evan is developing teenage attitude.  And Sean had decided he’s a baby.  Should I drop the F-bomb now?

Lately, I want a nut bar.  A bar of nuts.  Nuts in a bar form.  Don’t say Payday because The Husband and my dad already asked me that.  I just want a healthy snack of nuts . . . in bar form.  It reminds me in the last days before Evan was born I started searching for the perfect trail mix, and I ended up making my own because I couldn’t find anything I wanted.

You know, fresh coconut sounds good right now.  So does vanilla ice cream.  Separately, not together.

In the last day or so, I finally packed my bag.  Mainly because I was tired of hearing my mom nag me about it.

In the last several days, it dawned on me that I should be taking it easy.  Like sitting and resting more.  You know so I don’t send myself into early labor, since I’m hesitant about it.  Bless The Husband for having a laptop so I can write from the cushy couch.

For the last several days, I’ve been trying to vacuum, but something keeps barring the way.  I wonder if I should give up.  I also have started asking The Husband to take out the trash.  I may try nagging again.

In the last days, I wonder if I’m having some sort of psychic block that keeps me from having the baby (NOTE: I meant to say naming the baby, but maybe that was a Fruedian slip).  Maybe I have some real deep issue that needs to be solved.  Or I’m a procrastinater. 

It’s just a few more days.

And you thought the fear about how to get the baby out was the worst part

This post is about sensitive material.  Too Much Information Material.  Things like pooping, breastfeeding and sex, so if you’re not into reading this stuff, especially if you have a Y chromosome, I suggest you keep on moving and join us tomorrow.

There were a few things that scared me nearly to death after I gave birth.  One fear was how was I going to take care of an infant when I felt I was barely able to take care of myself.  What crazy God thought I could take this little bitty innocent thing and nurture him to manhood?  Obviously someone who is either not omniscient or just has too much faith in me.

But more immediately I feared having a bowl movement.  As in dear-God-if-you-would-remove-this-cup-from-my-lips fear.  I dreaded it, wondering if somehow my stitches would come undone just by that.  Things are just so fragile down there.  Of course, nature takes its course, and everything turns out just fine. 

Then there’s sex.  There are so many concerns about sex.  Or at least I had so many concerns about sex.  I wondered what kind of damage birthing did to my lady parts.  (I’m torn because I’m one of those people who uses biological correct terms, but euphemisms are so much fun.)  Again, those stitches worried me, and I wondered if everything was as pretty as it used to be.  I wondered, like so many others, was I little stretched out.  Finally I worried that I would squirt milk on The Husband at an intimate moment. 

The first concern was the last to be resolved because I became a convert to lights out sex after pregnancy.  Not only was I concerned with how my stitches looked, I became very much aware that my tight little belly pooch hung down and out now.  So it wasn’t until one afternoon long down the road, that I completely forgot about my new religion that I was assured I was fine.

The second concern I mentioned to my mom one day, soon after Evan’s birth.  She looked at me funny.  “Sweetheart, if we never went back to normal, the tampon industry would only be selling to teenage girls.”  Um, good point.  I’ve yet to hear of a man that was as thin as a tampon, so I think we’re all safe.

But my real concern, my real fear, the thing that keeps The poor Husband celibate much longer than I attend or he would want, is squirting milk during sex.  Once my milk comes in, it stays in abundance.  I could feed several babies if I wanted.  My breasts are always ready and waiting for the next feeding.  If I just think about feeding, my breasts start to leak.  It doesn’t take me long to picture what some fun bedroom activity would do to my swollen, ready-to-feed breasts.  While I’m sure The Husband would shrug it off, I would just be mortified.  It would feel like the ultimate betrayal of my body, reminding me that it’s not just MY body anymore.  My body also belongs to the hungry monster sleeping in the bassinet at the foot of the bed or the crib down the hall.  So rather than try and put my fear aside, I feign an uninterest in sex for the first several months until the kid is feeding every four hours or so, not every two.

Now Fie Upon This Quiet Life has this wonderful post about how she coped with motherhood and sex, and I thought how different my experience was from hers and yet it really is very similar.  She didn’t feel sexy because she was a mommy, and I don’t feel sexy because I was a mommy (that leaked).  It’s so hard to be sexy when you’re coming to terms with a body that has changed so dramatically.  I was worried that if The Husband watched me push a baby out of my vagina that he would have flashbacks for months.  It didn’t happen.  While he was uncomfortable with third trimester pregnancy sex, he couldn’t wait to get back on the ball after the six week all clear.  Granted, I wasn’t ready with all the lack of sleep and all.  (Sweetheart, that feels . . . ZZZZZZZZZZZZ.)  But in the end, I gained a comfortablitly with this new body, much like when I went from a tall, lanky kid to a tall, curvy woman.  It was awkward, uncomfortable, and weird to go through puberty, but I liked me and my body afterwards.  Just like pregnancy is often awkward (at least the waddling is), uncomfortable (which is how you feel when the baby lays on your bladder), and weird (ok, your belly is being moved around by something inside you and you can See It), but in the end, you’ll grow to love the new parts of you, stretch marks and all.  And so will your husband.

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