I had my first pregnancy meltdown. Up until then, I had lured Kiefer into a false sense of security: 17 weeks sans emotional breakdowns.
We were headed out to Kiefer’s soccer game, and I could not find any clothes that fit. I went through at least 5 outfits. Pants, dresses—everything was too tight. And I broke a bra strap.
Finally, I put on a pair of shorts (fastened with a rubberband) and one of Kiefer’s t-shirts.
Kiefer: Ready to go?
Me: ::lower lip quivering::
Kiefer: ::puzzled look::
Me: ::explosion of tears::
Kiefer: ::look of terror:: What’s wrong?
Me: My clothes don’t fit!
Kiefer: It’s ok. ::hugging:: You’re pregnant.
Me: But clothes that fit last week don’t fit this week!
Kiefer: Because you’re pregnant.
Let this be a lesson to you all: Logic does not calm down a pregnant woman whose pants won’t button. The only thing that does is Netflix and Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream.
Kiefer, look on the bright side, there’s only approximately 162 days of pregnancy left.
Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I don’t trust those bastards at Eggo, either. In an unrelated note, you could become a born-again virgin if you eat enough Cherry Pop Tarts. I looked it up.”—Bluzdude