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It’s only 8:48 a.m. and I’ve already eaten twice today. I just destroyed some miniature peanut butter cracker sandwiches. I had breakfast less than two hours ago, but I’ve reached the stage in life where I need to eat miniature peanut butter cracker sandwiches, or bunny-shaped grahams or cheese quesadillas or hamburgers, about six times per day. I’ve reached that stage where my New Year’s resolution necessarily is to gain weight, at least until July.
At which point, I plan to leave the kitchen long enough to give birth to a baby.
Michael and I are in the family way. I’m about 15 weeks “along,” as they say and in six short months, we will have our very own little boy or girl monkey to ... I have no idea what we’re going to do with it. I’ll think about it during my next handful of crackers.
No offense to Michael, but my husband and I are clueless and immature. We’re pretty good at Dance, Dance Revolution, but not sure at all, for instance, how we’re going to fit a car seat into the tiny cab of our pickup truck. Thankfully, we’re also madly in love and very excited to take this next step together.
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