I think I'm getting to the point of being full o' baby. Like, the up to my chin with baby kind of full o' baby.
I have no idea what size I am anymore.
Shoes definitely do not fit. I tried on a pair of running shoes the other day and wanted to cry because they were far bigger than my non-pregnant feet would wear, yet they weren't big enough. And who knows how big my feet will be when they're done doubling as marshmallows?
In clothing, I'm somewhere between small and large. Like, I wear all three sizes- from the same company! Riddle me that. Most days, I think about going to a thrift shop, buying a few flat sheets, cutting a hole in the middle big enough to put my head through, and belting the sucker.I could get some lovely floral patterns, I'm sure.
So yeah, aside from feeling a little like the Stay-Puff, things are good.
I've been a nurse for almost two weeks (officially), My Sweet Husband and I are on a wild home hunt (please pray, cross your fingers, excise demons, do a rain dance, or whatever you do for good ju-ju in hopes we find one soon!!), and I am holding open auditions for foot gnomes. Or fairies. Or anyone else willing to rub my potatoes feet on command.
One thing I was a little unprepared for in my third trimester is the sensation that I am the Very Hungry Caterpillar. Like, All. The. Time.