The third trimester is upon us. This is the fun one I hear! Sh*t really hits the fan. You know aches, no sleeping, and all around giganticness. I’m definitely most fearful of these last 12+ weeks. Come on, some women get hauuge. Good luck, hus.
I’ve been blessed to have managed this well for 24 weeks. Everything buttons and I’m in the same size. I’m still running 15+ miles a week at a 9:30 min pace, and working out with Andrew hitting weights and the bike. Are you surprised? You can read my running tips at Live for The Run or iRunner, where I moonlight.
No cravings or massive appetite…yet. I still luhve to bake, but I bake and distribute. Don’t really care for what I make, and not being able to eat the batter or lick the bowl blows goats. Stupid raw eggs. And here’s to heartburn.
Mr Baby successfully high-fived the hus almost on command. Andrew claimed he was cycling, thanks in part to the Euro Vuelta A España cycling race we were watching. Long lost are my nights of E! Reality shows. He’s getting stronger and typically in the morning he likes to do the Mexican wave (the wave originated there) across the belly (Mr Baby, not Andrew).
I’ve been on shopping probation until we moved, and now it’s nursery decorating time. It’s at the point where things start falling together. I’ve gone from being overwhelmed by how much
crap cute stuff babies need, to realising people give birth in the dirt in third world countries.
As much as I am dreading some things, I am pumped about the thought of him looking less like Benjamin Button/Gollum and more like a Gerber baby.