Ticker Slacker

See, I barely know what day of the week it is. Yesterday I was sure all day that it was Saturday. I even had the thought, as we strolled through the halls of my favorite store in the whole wide world, "Wow, it's SO not crowded for a Saturday!" And yes, it was Friday. Duh. This is a hazard of summer. So how can I be expected to remember what week I'm on? (For shame, 2nd child syndrome has set in already. Poor kid.) All right, so I know what week I'm on. But my blog? It's clueless. Week 10:

See, that would be mean. I mean, a nice pizza I'd throw, but grapefruit? Ew. Oooh! Big cream pie!

Coconut cream is only good for throwing anyway. But seriously, my husband does not deserve hurled food. My husband rocks. Even if the fact that my jeans don't zip all that easily anymore IS his fault. The improvements to Maddie's big girl room alone qualify him for a medal of some sort. I won't brag too much, because I don't want to have to be beating the other girls off with a stick (especially since they're probably faster and in better shape than me right now anyway). Right now he's playing piano with the girl on his lap, she's singing karaoke.

Week 11:
No. Not even a little, thanks. How about "Nothing says, 'I'm pregnant' like:

• napping more than your toddler."
• feeling like the baby is kicking your ass before they can actually kick you." (Sciatic nerve pain is back with a vengance.)
• your 2 year old digging in her heels with potty training while you tally up how much two sizes of diapers a week will cost.
• "dipping toaster waffles in Italian Wedding soup." (Oooh, lunch!)

Tomorrow: the coveted 12 weeks. (A relief-inducing milestone, depending on who you talk to. Others put it at 13 weeks, and those people can sit on it.)