Third Tri, Unsolicited Intimacy, & An Almost Residence

I had a speaking engagement at a school the other day and I couldn’t find the building I was looking for. I stopped a lady walking past and asked for directions to the middle school library. She looked at my face, then my preggo belly, then back to face. She said (trying so hard not to look at my belly again), “Um, yeeeeessss, but are you sure there’s something going on in there?”

I didn’t know how to say, “Yes, I’m the guest speaker they’re waiting on.” without sounding like a tool, so I just said, “Yes, there is. There’s a meeting for junior high parents.”

She still wasn’t buying it. But she did a good job of pretending she wasn’t about to call the Pregnancy Help 4 U emergency line. She said, “Let’s just call over there to make sure because…uhh…I just don’t want to send you all that way if nothing…uhhh…hold on a second.”

She picked up the phone and said, “Hi, it’s Barb. Is there something going on in the library? Uh huh. Yes. Ok. Yes. Great! Well, I have a paren…a substitu….a, uh, studen….I have a young lady here looking for you guys. I’ll send her right over!”

Poor lady.

Peoples’ struggle to categorize me never ceases to entertain.

Third Tri, Baby!

Speaking of being pregnant, hellloooo, third trimester.

You snuck up on me.

[Until yesterday when I rolled my skinny jeans up for a pedicure and couldn’t roll them back over my calves at the end. I kid you not, had there been scissors within arms reach, I would have cut my pants off. They finally rolled/stretched back down. Barely.]

Only 12ish more weeks go! Which, according to my calculations and judging by my current pace of growth, puts me about here:

Give or take.

Unsolicited Intimacy

I’ve reached that time of pregnancy where I receive a lot of unsolicited birth stories. Mostly from cashiers.

Strangers go one of two routes: the a) you look so cute!! or b) you’re only 28 weeks?! (I’m killing off the latter species one dumb comment at a time. I got your back, future pregnant women of America.)

But I’ll never understand the birth stories. “When are you due?” “Febru-” “You know, when I had my first, his head was so big I had to get 213 stitch…”

No. Just no.

This is a real thing, you guys. It happens almost daily.

And I’m really sorry for her lady parts, but let’s just continue ringing up my ice cream and Tums in silence, yeah?

Please and thank you.

An Almost Residence

IN OTHER NEWS:

we found a house.

A house that is big enough to host more than 2 people at a time. A house where our current furniture will look like doll house furniture. A house where we actually have to move plugs to vacuum the whole house. A house with a yard and a place for 2 boys and their dog to play.

Barring any surprises during the inspection, this place will be ours in less than 1 month.

If this thing comes to fruition, I’ll post on just how blessed (I know that word has been ruined by teen girls who use #blessed on some sort of car selfie, but it’s a real thing.) we are to have found this place at the price we did at the time we did.

I could pee my pants with excitement thinking about how many people and events we can have over. (Hospitality. It’s my spiritual thang.)

And if this thing doesn’t come to fruition, I’m sorry, future residents, for instagramming a picture of your home…but I’m glad we backed out of buying it because that means our inspector told us it’ll come crashing down at any moment. Or something.