My belly itches like I rolled Poison Ivy thanks to Huck and Finn who are currently engaged in a little fetal competitive eating contest. I’m totally happy they are sucking down the chow but it means my frail Irish skin has to expand to previously unknown dimensions.
My solution?
Coconut oil and vitamin E. I smell like a Caribbean Island without the Margarita or tanning oil.
My goal for this pregnancy:
1. Full term
2. No stretch marks, because I didn’t invest a stink load of money in bikini’s in my 20’s not use them.
That’s it, really.
In other news this man, Avick Mitra, Maternal Fetal Medicine Dr.
(who looks about 25 years older than this in real life)
has released me into normal society with no restrictions. He says I can ride my horses, go to the gym, run a marathon, and do pretty much anything I want until Huckleberry and Finnius make their transition from fetus to infant.
First thing I do: take my kids to the Renaissance Festival. Because “normal” to the Johnson’s are medieval weapons, jousting, and crude comedy that thankfully Eagle and Simi don’t yet grasp.
It was beyond uncomfortable to be around 7,456 people when I was used to a party of one. And people stare at me like a freak. The winch lass at the front gate offered to have a midwife follow me around during my stay at the faire.
I cursed at her in Modern English but she didn’t get it. Maybe I would have tried Old English if I was fluent. Thankfully my charges were preoccupied with over priced, but still deadly Chinese throwing stars to notice my decent into indecency.
Without doubt in public 45 people will ask me when I am due. I loath this question because:
1. It reminds me that everyone can see I am the size of a Volkswagen. (Eagle tells me just Punch Bug size, not Westphalia size. Sweet, boy)
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2. I can see the physical pain in their eyes when I say “December”.
So I have to be creative.
Top answers for, “When are you due?”
1. I’m not pregnant. It’s cancer.
2. July
3. Oh, this isn’t a baby. Would you like to hear my story of alien abduction?