Work in an environment where everyone is supportive and happy when you tell them you are expecting. That went surprisingly well. I don’t know what I expected, maybe something like this;“I’m pregnant.” “You’re fired!” Darn, I could have sued for discrimination.
Bring me Krispy Kremes every day, not just on treat day. I can’t have beer, cigarettes, or my daily overdose of caffeine anymore, at least give me the crack cocaine that is the Krispy Kreme glazed donut.
Tell me that my stomach looks normal, even though I feel like someone is pumping my guts full of air. I can barely button my pants and I’m only five weeks pregnant. WHAT THE FUCK, KID?
Let me fall asleep where ever I am and don’t bother me. Something is building a home inside my body, and it’s very exhausting.
Continue to make me dinner every single day, because by the time I get home from work I’m ravenous. If there’s no dinner, I might eat your arm.
Laugh about how much I pee during the day. It’s funny. Yesterday I peed 3 times within the first hour of work. That’s hilarious. Today I cut my coffee intake down to one cup, so it’s not going to be nearly as much.
Repeatedly remind my husband that I AM PREGNANT. When I told him how my stomach felt the other day, he was like, “oh, come on, you just found out and now you’re all like, ‘my stomach feels weird.’” Hey, dick, that’s cause you impregnated me. Next time GO FUCK YOURSELF. Now make me dinner, bitch.
Invite me to go out to the bar on St. Patrick’s day. I might not be Irish, but I have a part Irish (the other part is hunkydeigogermanjew, as my dad likes to say, and if you find that offensive, then just go away. I have no time for you) kid living in my belly, and he/she doesn’t want me to go to the bar. He/she wants me to eat, sleep, and eat some more. Preferably McDonalds. THIS KID WANTS MCDONALDS.
Smoke around me. Please. I just quit on Tuesday, and I don’t want to do it again. If you smoke around me, I’ll want to smoke too. And this kid doesn’t want me to smoke. Or drink. OR DO ANYTHING BUT SLEEP AND EAT (fuzzball, can we say Quarter Pounder with Cheese? Oh, wait, you haven’t developed your vocal chords yet).
Tell me I can do all the things I normally do because pregnancy is not a disability. Excuse me, “doctor”, but the things I normally do are not healthy for being a suitable home to a fetus. Namely all the drinking and smoking I would normally do.
Make a big fuss over me and tell me congratulations. Almost everyone I’ve told has said congratulations, and I’m thinking, what for? Congratulations for making a mistake? For not using a condom at the appropriate time? Making a baby is easy. Heck, it’s even fun. And if it’s the time I think it was, it was REALLY fun. Tell me congratulations because I haven’t thrown up once yet. Now that’s an accomplishment that deserves recognition.
Make me stick my foot in my mouth about all the times I’ve bitched about other people’s kids. I’m still not a fan of other people’s kids. But my kid is going to be a rockstar. Oh, you didn’t know? Your ass better call somebody!
Listen to me when I make references to professional wrestling.
*Call me "Chubs," Mom. I'll bitch slap you right upside your head. And don't give me that offended look when I tell you how rude it is to fuck up my body image, something you've been doing MY WHOLE LIFE.*
I’m still working out the kinks on this website thing. It’s either going to be really cheesy, or it’s going to have to be a regular blog. I might just do a blogger blog for lack of something better. I’ll figure that out today.
*Ok, I figured it out. Just go to here, and it will take you to the baby blog. I was going to go the babiesonline.com route, where you can password protect and all that garbage, but you can't put up links or anything. And it's really tacky with the baby wallpaper choices they give you. So no thanks. I'm not that big of a dork.*