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I haven't exactly thrown myself into pregnancy reading. I have one book on food and one that's supposed to tell you what other books don't. I really didn't learn much, except that it's pretty ok to eat lobster and I'll likely have diarrhea before I go into labor. (Gross, but I appreciate the heads up.) I got Nate an expectant father book. I figured he'd keep me informed. It's fun to hear him pipe up every once in a while with a bit of good-to-know info: "Did you know you're supposed to sleep on your left side? It improves blood flow to the baby." Nope. Thanks, Nate!

I figure how bad can I be at being pregnant? I'm not drinking, smoking, or eating tuna. I take my folate-packed vitamins, I eat fruit, and I don't skydive. This little sucker is doing just fine. What's to worry about? And as far as giving birth, it comes down to this: It will hurt. I will get over it. I'll worry about the details later.

Instead, I've fast-forwarded my worries past gestation and over the crying, non-speaking part of childhood. Right now, I'm sort of preoccupied with what my child will call my deceased mother--and how to explain the difference between her and my dad's wife. (I'm reading Motherless Mothers by the lovely Hope Edelman. Blame her.) I'm also concerned that I ask my kitty Rocky (above) "Who's my big fatty?" on a daily basis. I don't want my child to hear this, think calling someone a big fatty is a term of endearment and start insulting people. Plus, there's the swearing. I need to curb that. And talking shit about people. Kids repeat everything! Uncle Blah, mommy and daddy say you're a drunk. And Nate has to start pretending he likes more veggies. I don't want a small person staring at me at the dinner table saying "Why doesn't daddy have to eat green beans?" Nate, you better start eating your f-ing beans.
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