The girls are tucked away in bed, Sean and I are weary from a weekend of home improvements and trying to shake this nasty bug that has taken stubborn root in our chests. I came downstairs this morning, head feeling heavy and swollen, and perched on the couch in front of Sean.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Umm, just waking up. I feel like hell.”

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” He asked.

“Ummm, I don’t know.”

“Go. Take care of yourself. Sleep.” He smiled.

“Ummm, ok, ” I’m particularly brilliant and articulate while pregnant and sick in the morning.

I trudged upstairs, looked at the clock which read 9:30, and rolled face down in the pillow with a whimper and a mercilessly stuffy nose snort. Next thing I knew the clock read 11:30. I sat up, nose better, but now my head was throbbing. I made straight for the kitchen for the one inarguably acceptable drug for pregnant women and a glass of oj. Then coffee. I was approaching punky bliss. Entering the newly mocha-riffic fireplace room and I was renewed.


We head to Albany early tomorrow for an ultra-sound, the big anatomy scan. I have every intention of sending Sean off with the images for posting here tomorrow night or early Tuesday morning.

Care to make a wager on whether we’re baking up a little girl or a little boy?