I'm so not kidding about the fire thing.

I haven’t been a very good blogger lately. In fact, I haven’t been a very good blogger since last fall when my first round of morning sickness reminded me of what that lil’ positive sign on a pregnancy test really equates to.

{Um, are you sick of me talking about morning sickness and pregnancy woes?!}

{Yeah, I thought so. Give me two point five more months and I promise not to mention another word about it.}

{Well, maybe not another word. But I do promise to bring it up a whole lot less.}

Speaking of pregnancy woes: I hate maternity clothes. It probably has something to do with the fact that all of my maternity clothes were purchased from a department store clearance rack six and a half years ago. But, still. They are big, and awkward, and maternity pants – oh my heavens, maternity pants. They swallow you whole. Start at my ankles and end at my {double} chin. Err, at least they start that way. But then by lunchtime I’m a hot mess of pregnancy wonder with the crotch of my pants hanging mid-thigh. It’s hot.

And now my doc has me wearing compression socks to try to keep the varicose veins from taking over my ENTIRE RIGHT LEG {pregnancy woes people, pregnancy woes}!

I feel like lunch lady meets Steve Urkel.

Only white.

And pregnant.

But Steve Urkel pants are better than the alternative. The other day Brynlee declared it a stay at home all day sorta day. And to celebrate I voted against maternity wear and squeezed my expanding self into a pair of pre-pregnancy black yoga pants. Every time I bent over Jace announced to anybody that would listen that “mama has a butt crack”.

I keep cheering myself on with the reminder that I only have two and a half more months - I can do two and a half more months.

Really two and a half pregnant months is a sweet forever! But I just tell myself that I’m oh so close so I don’t feel quite as tempted to throw all the maternity clothes in the driveway and SET THEM ON FIRE.

I’m 29 weeks though. {29 weeks and two days, asamatteroffact} Which means I’m on the homestretch. The last lap. The final trimester. And honestly, I think I’m going to survive ‘till the end.

And if I don’t, feel free to auction off my maternity clothes to help feed my family.

And if you don’t mind, bury me in a knee length dress + my compression socks.

Because I think it would be funny.

But if I do survive - fingers crossed - I hope that the blogger in me resurfaces. I sorta miss updating my unedited life with our random happenings for memories sake.