Kiddo was pretending to be a mom a few days ago, and was taking care of her charges. At one point she says, "I'm sorry, I can't do much. Moms who are pregnant can't do very much." She's right. And she should know because her mom is pregnant.
After weeks of heavy napping and serious sickness, I finally told the kids why their sometimes-fun mom had become a seriously not-fun mom. In the ensuing weeks since breaking the news to them, I have not become any more fun. Although I have fed them, at least three times a day, every day (except when there was someone else to feed them). Except my super-star husband has been making dinner for the last two months. So I guess I've only fed them at least twice a day. But they are fed. And clothed. So there's that.
I am starting to show. Not enough to make it obvious that I'm pregnant, just enough to make me feel fat, and make sure none of my clothes fit. This baby makes its entrance in late July.
Babs asks me at least once a day "You have a baby in your tummy?" She often follows this up with "what's its name?" I tell her we don't know the baby's name, or even whether it is a boy or girl. But fret not, because "when the baby cracks open" (a technically inaccurate, but disturbing, description) it will tell her its name.
(Kiddo has "always wanted a brother." Babs has "always wanted a sister." My husband and I want someone to wear the boatloads of clothes we have out in the shed, but would be happy to learn new skills as well.)
