THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU.

If you can't stand the honest truth about pregnancy, this post is likely not for you.
If fart and burp jokes are repugnant to you, this post is likely not for you.
If you are really close to me and there are things about me you just don't need to know, this post is likely not for you.

You have been sufficiently warned.

This past weekend was, by far, the worst time.  I'm not sure I'm going to live through this pregnancy and if I hear one more person tell me this is going to be worth it, they can carry this hormone-inducing flesh-bag the rest of the way. 

Here are a few udpates to how I'm feeling. . .

1.  Instead of jacks, my boobs are now filled with cement.  And, not the smooth kind.  But, the chunky kind that rips jeans and knee-skin when you fall on it.

2.  The nausea is so bad, I feel like someone should create a Sesame Street monster for it.  It will be cute and pink and run around barfing on everything.  All of the other characters on the show will want to shoot it but some helpful, well-meaning jerk will continue to point out that she is "worth it"

3.  Holy Crap!  Did I just crap for the first time in three days?  Yeah.  Constipation.  It makes everything so much harder.  That pun was meant.  Indeed.

4.  To reduce the nausea, I find myself eating small bits every two hours.  7-Up seems to be helpful, though, I have to say that carbonated drinks make things happen.  And, when I say "things" I mean, chunky burps.  Yeah.  I mean the sharts of burps.

At eight weeks, I look forward to one more month of this deplorable treatment by my leasee.  If someone treated my rental property like this, I would kick them out.  No. . I would beat the hell out of them and then kick them out.  Letting the perpetrators of such injustice get off scott-free would be. . . in the words of Vizzini, "INCONCEIVABLE!"

So. . I will wait and make sure to use this wretched time as the lecture most children hear at least once from their disappointed/irate parent.