hardy prairie stock

I am terrible at being pregnant. Terrible. So bad, that one of my cousins was freaked out afraid when she finally decided to have a baby because she figured her body would react like mine. It didn't. Lucky wench.

The first time I was pregnant, I had debilitating morning sickness. I couldn't eat. I couldn't think. I just cried and cried and cried. And then I had a miscarriage at 16 weeks. I thought that wasn't supposed to happen after you made it through the first trimester. But it did. Looking back on it, I was much too young to have a baby and I was definitely married to the wrong guy. We separated less than a month after I lost that baby. Whew.

The second time I was pregnant. I found out when I miscarried. I was even on birth control. That is when I decided that I would take absolute responsibility for my body. I just believed that I knew myself much better than any pill or shot or patch ever could.

When I got pregnant with the Griff, I knew almost immediately. Then I convinced myself that it was all in my head. It is supposed to be difficult to get pregnant, and I couldn't have possibly gotten pregnant the first time we tried. But then I went to the Mont and ordered a swirl. I. Love. Swirls. They are this frozen sangria/margarita combination that is to die for. The one I ordered tasted like ass. I couldn't drink it. That night, I took a pregnancy test. It was positive.

The first trimester was nasty. I was miserable and was on bed rest twice by the time I was twelve weeks pregnant. Goodness. It sucked. Big hammered donkey balls. Things sailed along nicely for most of the rest of my pregnancy until my blood pressure skyrocketed about three weeks before he was due. So, more bed rest.

I went into labor at midnight on his due date. And he was perfect. My goodness I love that kid.

Fast forward six years later and one more miscarriage and voila Z.

I thought that we were done.