Having a new name and being gross, totally unrelated

I have a new last name and it's really hard to sign and I've had to introduce myself exactly two times in the last week and it sounds so foreign. 

This new name feels like wearing lipstick for the first time. It's easy to apply. In theory, it's really pretty. But god, you feel like you're playing dress-up. I introduce myself as more of a question than a statement because saying it out loud feels so clumsy. 


I love every bit so far.

You guys our wedding day was the most perfect day we could have ever imagined and I have so many words that I can't come up with right now, so I'll tell our wedding story another day.

Telling the story of the very best day is a lot of pressure. I want to tell that story right. I truly don't do it for all of you, though that's nice, too. I do it for me. I do all of this for me, so I can look back on these stories years from now and experience the moments again.

I do that regularly. Maintaining this corner of the internet is among my favorite things. It's my selfish space. To be clear, I have many selfish spaces. This is just my favorite one. I am selfish probably.

[looks the other way]

Speaking of selfish, this baby is taking up more and more space and control of my body every day. Week 22 of pregnancy has brought on a new level of too-much-information. Five days into our newlywedded bliss, Todd and I are walking around Target and he's carrying disposable nursing pads because I woke up that morning with a leaky boob.


This, apparently, is pregnancy. 

And why did no one warn me? 

In another year or two when people begin asking us if we're having another baby, I'll look back on this post and remember it as the week I bought boob-leak protection, panty liners, and magnesium supplements to tame and prevent the heinous leg cramps that are, apparently, on the way. 


(I reserve the right to reconsider that statement). 

I wake up at night sweating profusely. Just dripping. The animals love to snuggle with my pregnancy pillow, but if they knew the condition of my incredibly gross body while I sleep at night, I'd probably have to sleep on the couch, for one. But also, gross. 

I woke up Tuesday night howling in pain while a cramp seized my left calf muscle and had me convinced I was about to drop very dead right there next to my brand new husband. I literally said the words "help me." 


That is the theme of week 22. 

Todd did help me, by the way. He was quite good in his 3 a.m. stupor, bending and stretching my leg while I writhed in she-devil horror. 

This is going to be labor, isn't it? I'm going to die. I am going to totally die of she-devil horror pain, screaming bloody murder while Todd remembers fondly the days of sweet nighttime cuddles and a woman who didn't drip sweat down her butt crack at night. 


This is what we get for getting pregnant before marriage, isn't it? This is the shame placed upon us in the form of leaky private parts and 3 a.m. cries for help. THIS IS OUR HONEYMOON PHASE.

We've got this shit locked down.


Facebook Memories are showing me that three years ago this week I ran the fastest marathon of my life. I was fit and I was fast. A year later I'd be in the best shape of my life again, racing the Boston Marathon. 

Two nights ago I strapped on a velcro maternity belt so I could slowly jog two miles around my neighborhood without feeling like my bladder and uterus would spontaneously combust. 

My pregnancy app tells me I still have 17 weeks and 4 days left of being pregnant. 

(help me)

All horror aside, I'm growing myself a whole baby and that's still the most mind-blowing thing I've ever heard of. He's still acrobatic, all one pound of him. And a foot long! How on earth there is a one-pound, foot-long human in my body is beyond me. 

Until I look down. 

The almighty "they" tell me all of "this" is worth it. 

I... believe them.

Pregnancy, while fascinating, has not been my most favorite experience in life to date. But that doesn't mean I'm not excited every single day for what it will bring me. We made a family. I am growing the addition to "us." 

He just better be super, super cute because this constant, raging heartburn is a hellfire. 


The Mrs.