my eyes, they sweat (and a wee TMI).

eye sweatGonna have to ask my doc about this salty discharge that’s been leaking from my eyes.

I’m a bundle of hormones lately. Got my first period since getting pregnant, and it has thrown me into another existential tailspin. I am sweaty. I am ravenous. I am retaining water. But most of all, I am SUPER emotional. I mean really, I can’t stand myself right now; I literally cannot handle all of life’s feels and I find myself busting a #thugcry at anything remotely sweet or touching.

To wit: I was watching Ellen the other day, and she had audience members participate in blindfolded musical chairs. The last girl standing (sitting?) won a great prize package…and then Ellen – with her generous ol’ self – ended up giving the losers the same prize as well. They were elated, jumping up and down, hugging each other, I laughed along with their joy, then all of a sudden someone started cutting onions in the room and I had to change the channel.

Peanut and I were hanging with the boy yesterday, and he reminded me that this May will be the first time I am a Mother’s Day giftee, as opposed to gifter…Totally stoked. Ha! He knows how to spoil a sista when the occasion calls for it, so I. Can’t. Wait. (Listen, he’s totally got the clean end of the stick when it comes to this whole parenthood thing. The one who wipes the poop gets the gift. Rules is rules.)

Speaking of salty discharge and special occasions, a friend of mind posted this link on Facebook and I completely lost it at the end. Here’s the write up and, peep the video after the jump.

Enjoy! Continue reading

TMI tuesdays: nose candy.

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viva el nasal occlusion!

I have a confession: I have become a serial nose-picker.

(Yet another!) one of the downsides of my pregnancy has been nasal congestion and the increase of all manner of yuck going on inside my nose. I have to constantly remind myself not to start excavating in polite company, and even as I type I can feel a small ‘n’ crusty wedged in the back of my right nostril.

I have never liked the feeling of anything at all in my nose, so I dedicate a good portion of my day to keeping the ol’ shnozzola sparkling. Tissue, fingers, cotton swabs – if it fits, it goes up and in to get the offending detritus out. I keep my nails long on purpose – not as digging tools (ewww 😀 ) but a deterrent; long nails and mucous membranes just don’t mix.

The backs of my hands are dry from all the hand-washing/sanitizing I do, on account of all the sniffer-scraping. I’ve always been fastidious about having clean hands, so as soon as my beak-cleaning business is done, it’s time to wash. Scrub-a-dub-dub…

I know. Grody, right? But I haven’t done a TMI in a while, and it’s one of the things that I can’t wait to be rid of once the wee girl makes her debut.

Don’t judge. Just pass the tissue.

TMI tuesdays: does a body good.

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It’s official. My boobs have gone from pleasers to feeders.

Since my largesse has made me an insomniac, I spend an inordinate amount of time browsing the innerwebs. I alternate between Pinning and researching all manner of baby stuff.

Peanut is due practically any day now, and I’ve been wondering at what point will my milk start to come in? Every time I shower, I squeeze and (wo)man-handle the girls in an attempt to produce some kind of response, but alas, nothing but dust. I started to worry that if my babe came early, she’d starve, ’cause her mama’s newfound tatas are only good to look at.

And then I came across this article, and realized that my technique was all wrong. Curious (and, I admit, dubious), I whipped off my top right there in my computer chair and began using the method described. Instant success. I couldn’t believe it. The secret is all in the hold. Previously, I’d just been tweaking the nipples (which, I’ve since learned, can actually induce labour) and coming up dry.

I can NOT get enough of my new trick. I’ve been trying it out as often as I can, marvelling at the output. Mind you, it’s certainly not gushes by any stretch of the imagination; it’s not even possible that I’ve produced a half-millilitre of anything. But still! My boobs! They make…stuff!

When I told the boy that my milk had started coming in, he gave me a confused look, and then put up his hand. “Uh…high five?” He offered.

“Yes!” I squealed, and smacked his palm. “It’s good thing! It means I can feed Peanut.”
“Oh. Awesome.” He nodded in approval.

I thought about actually showing him, but he freaked out at the size my stomach the other day, so I spared him the demo. I also opted not to tell him that I’d tasted it*. He probably would have run screaming from the room.

(*Oh, like you’ve never tasted your own? Please.)

TMI tuesday: the view from here.

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Aerial view. Has anyone seen my toes? They were here a few weeks ago…

This isn’t so much a TMI as it is an update – although the attached image of me below, semi-clothed, might be a little more of me than some are comfortable with.

I haven’t been one for pictures during this pregnancy, but I thought it might be good to post a recent image of my current form. I’ve already posted about being too big to shave, but really, I just feel so big in general. It’s amazing how, in a few short weeks I’ve gone to half of my wardrobe fitting to nothing fitting at all.

I’ve spent the first five months of this pregnancy feeling pretty good. This Friday marks my entry into the 24th week, and I gotta say, I’m pretty much over it now.

I’m in a constant state of discomfort: I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t eat without crippling heartburn or reflux. I have blurred vision and a bad memory. My bodily functions are out of whack, my centre of gravity is shot all to hell, and I hurt. Everywhere. All of the time.

I would give anything to be able to poop like a normal person. Continue reading

TMI tuesdays: over-growth.

It’s official. I am now too big to shave. It is now impossible to deftly manoeuvre around a slippery tub, sharp razor and soft bits in hand.

I can’t comfortably reach down to tend to my legs; leaning to one side is perilous enough on dry land, never mind the shower. I can no longer see my girl bits to groom them, so I rely on feel to de-fuzz. I actually use a battery-operated trimmer to give the ol’ girl a nice fade, but that takes time, a mirror, and the ability to bend. As I mentioned, I’m unable to do the latter, so I just sort of aim the trimmer in the general direction of the nether regions and hope that I don’t lop anything off. Imagine trying to skin a peach with a knife while blindfolded and you’ll kind of understand what I’m working with, here.

Pre-pregnancy, and up to about a month ago, I was always pretty well-groomed. Clean pits, smooth legs, and nicely landscaped. Now the boy and I have an agreement: he gets one hair-free thing at a time, not all three at once. Meaning, I will shave my pits today (the easiest), my legs the day after tomorrow – or the next, and maybe I’ll get to the good stuff by the weekend. At this size (damn fibroids), it takes too long to do a full sweep while I shower.

I’ve had waxing suggested to me more than once, but since I can’t see my bird, I can’t be vigilant about ingrowns. And to be honest, getting my legs waxed just sounds like an unnecessary expense and torture. I had my underarms done once, years ago at my friend Jenn’s tanning salon. Actually, make that underARM. One. She started with the right side, and when she yanked the hair out it hurt so bad that I broke out in a sweat on the left side of my body. I refused to let her near me to finish the other one.

Pretty soon all of my self-grooming is going to be relegated to the upper regions. I guess I’m just going to have to enlist the boy to finish up down below.

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I wonder how much this guy charges for his services?

TMI tuesdays: what lies underneath.

Although I grow larger by the day, I’m at a stage where I can still get into about 50 per cent of my pre-pregnancy clothes. I don’t have a lot of “maternity” clothing, per se; I’ve opted for buying loose, blousy tops with room to accommodate peanut, as well as tights galore (mostly black) in size large.

All of my underwear still fits. And when I say “still fits” I mean that I can still wear the tiny boyshorts and bikini panties I had pre-peanut, I just spend most of the time digging them out of my ever-expanding bottom. I don’t know about men’s skivvies, but women’s underwear is ridiculously expensive. I would imagine that due to the extra fabric, maternity underwear is only more so, hence the reason I haven’t splurged on any yet.

My mother bought some lovely new underwear for me as a gift when I came out of the hospital. I’m currently sporting my first-ever pair of all-lace panties. They’re lovely, and comfy, and come all the way up and over my belly, and stop somewhere near my ribcage, just under my boobs.

I look like a lace-covered exercise ball. So hot.

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Kind of like these. But higher. And white. And lacy. It’s the laciness that makes them so sexy.

TMI tuesdays: rack city.

I’ve never been what you’d call a busty girl. In fact, I’ve never even had a “bust.”

All my life, I’ve been a barely-there A-cup, and for the most part, I’ve truly enjoyed my membership in the itty-bitty titty committee. Sure, there were some things that I could never hope to wear – even with the support of push-up bras, chicken cutlets and other devices used to create the illusion of a gravity-defying bosom, but I just always chose to wear things that highlighted my other assets. Like my sexy – dare I say enviable? – collarbones. My long neck and my tiny waist. My long legs. And a really great ass.

(Clearly, humility is not among my other assets. 😀 )

I have owned the same four bras for the last ten-plus years. How is this even possible? you may wonder. Easy. With such a small chest, there often isn’t a need to wear one, so my bras (and my boobs) have maintained their shape. As my pregnancy has progressed, I still  haven’t worn one, but not because of the aforementioned aversion to them. For the first time in the history of man, my bras don’t fit. Not only that, I have cleavage.

Behold:

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Full disclosure: I’m lying down, but I’ve rotated the photo to show that there’s definite cleave-ing. I think this is the first time my left and right breasts have ever met each other.

After I took this photo, I sent it to the boy via text message. I won’t re-print his full response, but when he called later, he did say the words, “very nice” and “wow.” I think there even have been a “thank you, Lord,” and possibly some weeping.