First, I would like to welcome whoever Googled “how much partying by your husband is tolerable when pregnant” to get to my blog – welcome, friend.
We had our monthly check-up this morning with OB #3 (3 down, 4 to go), who was a very nice man who used the term “perfect” to describe three different things: my weight gain, my blood pressure, and the baby’s heartbeat. Note to Vegas: don’t get a big head now, going from “average” to “perfect” – you are still average, young man fetus. Aside from that, he was patient, calm, and very likable (the OB, not Vegas – though we do have high hopes). He’s definitely a keeper if we find ourselves in his care on the birth day, which is refreshing considering our episode with Georg-ado last month.
Next month, we’ll have our second ultrasound (well, third, if you count the 6 week ultrasound with the RE’s office). We’re still adamant about not finding out the sex, so we’re hoping to not get spoiled or that Vegas gets too revealing when it’s showtime. We’ll see OB #4 then as well for a check-up.
Until then, we’re enjoying the few unseasonably warm January days we’ve been having, and dreading the imminent return of the cold realities of Winter. I’m loading up on fruits and vegetables (Ruffles are potatoes, right?) and debating when will be the day I should cease wearing a belt with my regular pants. I can’t tell you the last time I didn’t wear a belt (it may have been the last time I wore a dress, which was circa 1995), but I hear that pregnancy pants don’t have belt loops. The nerve. I have a few maternity sweaters that I may break out sometime over the next few weeks, if only to clarify to strangers that I am getting more pregnant, instead of more fat. I dread being an unwilling contestant in a game my wife and I play in public called “Fat or Pregnant?” although it might be unavoidable. Ah well.