It’s Valentine week, so I’ve been making my go-to Valentine cupcakes for the girls’ school parties and not sampling any. Not even a frosting tipped finger has passed my lips!
I also didn’t make any extra, which was an unpopular decision at my house, but my gestational diabetes has been determined to be “under control” and I’m not fucking that up – even for heavenly, delicious, made lovingly from scratch cupcakes that would probably taste better than sex feels.
It’s actually pretty easy to avoid them when I consider the squishy-faced baby I’m baking in my proverbial oven.
Kissing those cheeks will be sweeter than any dumb cupcake.
Yesterday, Jackson’s heartbeat couldn’t be found for our non-stress test. The nurses chased it for nearly half an hour while he was busy deep-sea diving in 40.6 cm of amniotic fluid. (FORTY.POINT.SIX.) He preferred to kick the sensors on my belly, probably because the monitor made a fart sound every time he did it. (Even in utero, any child of Dave and mine would know that’s funny.) He did, however, ace his biophysical profile, again. And we watched him clap his feet together.
You want to know what isn’t adorable? When your maternity shirts no longer cover your belly, so the bottom half peeks out and the stretchy panel in your pants shows.
Would it be okay to wear pajamas for the next five weeks?