Ah, sorry. It's more of the same here, and seriously, how many times do you really want to read that? We go the doctor every Friday, except this week where we also go on Thursday. We are 'stable'. Stable is great, really. But stable is also not improved, it does not change statistics, or mean I can take my toddler to the park, or worry that I am wobbling around like a ticking time bomb and if I linger too long in the produce section I might just give birth RIGHT HERE.
Violet has decided that running is decidedly preferable to walking, so anytime I am up and around I am usually lurching around after her all Frankenstein-like not able to bend anymore compliments of my growing abdomen, arms extended and off-balance. She thinks it is HILARIOUS to run from me until she face plants on the kitchen floor, or the sidewalk, or into the one stray wooden block left lying around the living room. It's like toddlers have radars that are tuned fully on HAZARD FINDER!
I am finally visibly pregnant to spectators, which is nice because it means I can go to the store without looking like I am sporting just a really bad muffin top, and it makes me feel justified in purchasing an extra tub of slow-churned ice cream - you know, for the baby.
Andrew is busy trying to keep everyone pacified, and I am fairly certain he spends a fair amount of time begging God to stop sending him girls.
The pets? Well, they are sorely neglected and certainly petting themselves on my furniture as I type this.
