Week 4: This isn't so bad.
In Denver, Julie is either psychic or takes note of my greenish tint and the fact that I don't drink any Skinny Dip. She sends me home with a huge wardrobe of maternity clothes (mine, hers, and even some of Liz's) "just in case."
Week 5: This is ... getting more bad.
Week 6: Feel like death warmed over.
Stop buttoning my pants. Unapologetically eat deli meat AND brie.
Week 7: Heartburn and morning sickness. Cruel and unusual.
Also cruel: "morning" sickness and potty-training, night-waking preschooler and vomiting dog.
[Pause to acknowledge The Boring. Aren't you glad you didn't have to read all of this in real time?]
Week 8: Way too fat and sick for just one baby.
Have totally convinced myself there must be two in there. Panicking about need for new car, crib, double stroller, and "how will I even get from the garage to the house with TWO BABIES?"
Week 9: Ultrasound! Just one (of course).
We tell the kids. They tell everyone they see including the teenage kid working at the playroom at the Y.
Week 10: Giving thanks for my whole family, even (okay, especially) the one that's currently acting like a tapeworm.