Still haven't set up my primary computer, as we are waiting for a friend to bring us a desk. The rest of the flat is 95% done, after a full week of madly scrubbing and organizing. Still need some stuff, like under the bed boxes for my shoes which, since they are all stilettos, I can't wear right now. They are still in the packing box, slightly dusty and forlorn as I poke at my disappearing and reappearing ankle bone to see how bad today's swelling is. One day last week was so bad that some spider veins appeared around said lack of ankle bone, and I almost howled in a hormonal fit of woe-is-my-vanity.
I was prepared for my ass getting fat; I was not prepared for the cankles.
Though I feel like a whale, I can still fit into 2 pairs of jeans, though we are obviously on the last days of that and by and by large I haven't bothered as it's too fucking hot for wearing jeans while pregnant. Though they do hide the cankles...gonna have to go shopping soon, for some hippie skirts and maxi dresses. Blurgh.
My belly has finally surpassed my boobs, and it was a startling moment when I looked down and realized that not only could I see my belly poking out from under my boobs, my innie belly button is officially an outie now. You don't want to know what sort of weird positions I had to wriggle into during my latest round of leg and bikini self-depilation. If I slouch sans bra, I can rest my boobs on my belly. And I've now been initiated into the wonderful world of "underboob sweat."
The fatigue also has returned a bit, as twice this week all I have wanted to do was sleep and eat. Peanut has her moments of thundering pogo moshing, much to Mon Amour's boundless astonishment. She's also starting to kick me awake in the morning, which makes the morning dash to pee even more fun and frought with danger since I have to figure out how to heft the belly up and out of bed with my eyes barely open and my bladder on the imminent verge of "Gush."
Mon Amour claims to not remember me without a belly, to which I just snort and say "I do." though I'll cop to snickering out loud to myself as I putter around the house in minimal clothing, a walking cliche of barefoot and pregnant.
And in the first of many more "embarrass your child" moments to come, I'll just lay this out here now: Peanut, my darling, Mommy hasn't had multiple orgasms in months. And it's not because Daddy is neglecting his marital duties.
You don't fully realize that your uterus contracts during orgasm until it's grossly inflated with amniotic fluid and tiny little proto-human. So it's basically *orgasm* then gasp and roll over onto my side until my uterus stops mini-contracting. While it's not painful, it's definitely not the most comfortable feeling ever either. Suffice to say we've gotten to be proficient at simultaneous release...
Which reminds me that as a jokey moving ceremony, I finally introduced Mon Amour to my vibrator, which I haven't used since we first started dating. Homeboy has enough stamina and drive as to make me forget I even had a vibe. The funny thing about this little "Meet My Vibrator" ceremony is that I can't remember where I packed the rechargeable batteries...