9w2d for the last time

Damn you, Whirlpool commercial.



So I have to remind myself that crying over dumb commercials and being so sick that I can't lift my head off the desk is OKAY because it's temporary. In fact, it's too temporary.

I will never be nine weeks and two days pregnant again.

I will never be this sick from growing a baby again.

I will never outgrow my clothes for legitimate reasons again.

After January, I will never anticipate holding my newborn for the first time again.

I already feel the void of the end of all this beauty. So I must remember to endure, and close my eyes, and listen to life as it slowly grows. Because it will all be over too fast.

9 weeks not a secret anymore

Happy Father's Day to one awesome daddy.


You're going to love him, little one. And he will love you.

Obligatory bump pic. Everyone is surprised and excited that you're joining the world!

8 weeks first view

This was my first view of Surprise Schultz.

One healthy baby due January 25, 2016.

There isn't much to see at 8 weeks old. Baby is the size of a raspberry with a rapidly beating heart (the white dot in the middle of the body). Mostly it looks like a tadpole.

On Monday, July 13, I'll hear the heartbeat. On Friday, July 17, I'll get a serious ultrasound -- the same screening that predicted Truman was a boy. So I have a new milestone to obsess over look forward to!

6w2d I forgot what this is like

The nausea, which was only intermittent at five weeks, is now a constant, churning force of nature, threatening to wring out the contents of my stomach at the slightest taste or smell.

Thanks to the fatigue, I have to lay my head down once an hour, and I even managed to fall asleep with my face on a coffee table.

I had to tell my children to stop headbutting my stomach because mommy has a tummy ache that's going to last for the next several months.

There's a living, breathing heartburn monster inside my body trying to burn it's way up my throat.

My husband asks how I'm feeling and I want to punch him because ohmygod-how-do-you-think-I-feel-right-now.

All of my clothes are uncomfortable and it's pretty much impossible to hide the bump that has already formed (despite my husband's disbelief that I could possibly have a bump this early on -- thanks a lot, dear).

I throw away perfectly good food because ohmygod-I'm-going-to-barf-get-it-away-from-me.

...What's different this time around? There's nothing cutesy or lovey, except what I offer the baby silently in quiet moments throughout my day. It seems like there are no positive comments or conversations (yet), just semantics and worries and more incredulity. It's a lot of how-are-we-going-to-fit-them-in-our-cars and how-are-we-going-to-pay-for-daycare and I-thought-you-said-this-wasn't-going-to-happen.

And that's just not fair to you, baby. Or me, damn it. I want the smiles and the onesies, the daydreams and the warmth of the miracle that you are. You are loved and wanted, and my happiness is big enough for all of it, all of us.