People, I am being attacked. Well, my innards are. Apparently this little 3 pound creature has 953 elbows and 659 knees that are intent on jamming their little selves into my various abdominal parts all damn day.
All. Damn. Day.
And while he is having a grand ol’ time in there, it appears my diet has had to take a regressive turn back to bland, meat and potatoes, BLAH because I have the WORST case of heartburn in recorded history. TUMS and me? BFF. Either this kid or I am going to turn into a walking cheeseburger happy meal. Or a vanilla milkshake. Or both.
And now? My boobs. Which are still fabulous. You know, in case you were wondering. I’m loving the fact that I actually own a set now. But the side effect of this? Itching. Lots and lots of itching. I don’t know if it’s the hot weather, the hormones, the growth (my G-d the growth!), but I have this constant need to scratch and rub and I walk around looking like a badly directed porn starlet.
My boss thinks it’s charming.
Excuse me now. I have to go scratch and roll over.