Hiya, friends. Sorry for the silence.
Not much to report around here except for the IF equivalent of first-world problems: feeling blue about feeling fat; feeling terrified at the prospect of an actual baby in our actual apartment; feeling like stabbing someone in Old Navy while attempting to buy maternity clothes and settling for having a melt-down in H&M instead. Fascinating stuff.
I have an OB appointment tomorrow, so perhaps there will be more to report then. I’m hoping it will at least help with the fat-freakout — I know it’s moronic, and it isn’t as if I was skinny before this, but it turns out I’m having a bit of trouble ignoring the past 30 years of societal conditioning on the subject. With luck, said OB (The Russian, OB 3 of 4. Haven’t met her yet.) will not tell me I am gaining too fast, eating too much, etc. With further luck, that will help my brain get off this hamster wheel. If she *does* say I’m gaining too fast, batten down the hatches, ’cause we’ll all be in for a stormy ride. (In point of fact, I *am* eating more than “they” say to, because I’m freakin’ HUNGRY. There is no reasoning a stomach into peacefulness at 4 in the morning, and there is no going back to sleep for me while said stomach is restless.)
Enough ado! Here is your photographic evidence of my state at 14w6d (their count) or 15w1d (mine), in an Old Navy tank top wrested from roiling Herald Square this weekend and a very stretchy skirt of Sugar’s (double-wardrobe is one of the great benefits of the Homosexual Agenda):
ETA: Oh, gawd. I just realized that this turned into one of those “I’m so fat (now tell me I’m skinny)” posts. Yuck. Not the (conscious) intent, really. Please just take it as evidence of the crazy I referred to above — I swear I have regressed to my 15 year-old self vis-a-vis body image, and frankly, that was not the best or most interesting aspect of her personality.