Pregnant Girl here, you know the fictional character made up to help all you moms-to-be feel a little more normal about those pesky hormones that have you doing crazy things you only pray your husband never ever talks about.  In fact sometimes being that crazed prego takes you back to your days of drinking.  Remember having a few too many and then you wake up the next morning and as the night before comes back to you in a haze you shake your head saying “no, no, no” and see your husband smiling saying “oh yes you did.” 

Anyway, I’m back and really I’m here to bitch about that beer belly thing that is currently hanging over my pants creating massive muffin top.  Oh yeah and to top off that muffin I have boobs so out of proportion that the sales lady told me, and I quote, “they just don’t make that cup size to go with a 34 around.”  Effing great!  The only people who don’t notice my muffin top are pervy old men who cannot get past the Dolly Parton boobs that have taken up residence on my chest long enough to notice my pants no longer button because of the spare tire sitting on top of my hips.

Here I am 11 weeks, still one LONG week away from telling the world I’m pregnant NOT fat (or pregnant AND fat, but whatever) and every morning I wake up to see if my belly actually popped so the beer belly gut can take a hike, but nope.  Instead I have one more roll and my belly is beginning to resemble a shar pei.   The most awesome part of this is that my husband keeps asking if we are ever going to have sex again and all I can think is sure I have a beer gut, the constant urge to vomit and swear that if allowed I could sleep for at least 30 hours straight, but please honey tell me more about your needs.

Hang in there ladies, I hear that the belly pops soon enough and then all we will have to worry about are hemorrhoids.