I ran out of Zantac yesterday, which meant enduring a morning and afternoon of hideous heartburn. I stocked up on our grocery excursion last night and celebrated by popping two tablets when we got home. I know how to live, hooo yeah!
One of my pet peeves during Christmas was all the remarks about how much I could eat because I'm pregnant, and how lucky I was that I could indulge. I didn't bother going into details (like how I now have a tendency to throw up if I eat more than a toddler-sized portion of food) but I did inform people that the baby takes up a lot of room and I can't actually eat that much. On the plus side, no one lets me do anything anymore because of my delicate condition, which means I get a lot of tea and sympathy. Which is nice. Some women get really irked when they are treated like china dolls during pregnancy, but it doesn't bother me in the least. I'm tired. I can't stand for more than a few minutes at a time. You're offering a helping hand? Oh, yes please. Gratefully accepted.
I have just managed to drop a roasted nut down the front of my top. This wouldn't be such a bad thing normally, except I now have someone sitting across from me at work. Although he doesn't seem like an uptight kind of guy, I don't know if he'd appreciate it if I went diving down into my belly bra looking for a stray cashew. I'll fish it out in the car on the way home for lunch and freak out my husband instead.
There is no such thing as grace and decorum during pregnancy, I don't care who you are.