I appreciate fully and completely when you hold the door for me. I judge you when you don’t.
I do not, under any circumstances, want to hear about the thing that went wrong or almost went wrong during your birth. Keep your episiotomies, three-week labors and 15-pound baby woes to yourself.
I look tired because I am tired. I don’t sleep anymore, because apparently my body is cruelly preparing me for baby’s arrival.
Related: wipe that judge-y look off your face when I go to Starbucks the next day and order a coffee. I SEE YOUR JUDGE-Y FACES AND I WILL GO PREGNANT ROGUE ON YOU.
Bending over is hard.
Related: thank goodness for shoelace-less shoes.
I officially have five shirts that fit. You’ll see me wear them repeatedly for the remainder of my pregnancy. Don’t comment on this. And really, don’t talk to me about fashion at all. I don’t want to know what’s in style. I don’t want to hear about your cute new heels. I just want to wear a Snuggie to work and for it to be socially acceptable.
I’m a little bitchy these days. Sorry.
If you see me wearing one of my 6’4″ husband’s shirts, just smile and tell me I look pretty.
Yes, I really am keeping baby’s name a secret. No, I will not tell you just because you begged nicely. Although I did like the begging. Now give me some chocolate.
Exercise now consists of walking briskly from the garage, down the driveway to the house.
Don’t make me laugh too hard because I’ll probably pee myself a little. But don’t worry too much about this one, because I’ll probably pee myself a little at some point during the day regardless.
But seriously, give me some chocolate.