My ass is now roughly the size of Texas, and I still have enough pride left that this makes alternate positions humiliating.
Shaving my legs would require more flexibility than I was ever able to achieve in two years of yoga classes, and is a task that has fallen by the wayside. And we all know that nothing's sexier than prickly legs.
I'm exhausted in a way I can't combat. I wake up tired, and there are days when I'm so wiped out that even my hair hurts.
My husband is sweet and understanding, or at least as sweet as a man accustomed to averaging a minimum of twice weekly nookie can be. But hope springs eternal, and he still showers before bed every night, certain that tonight is the night that my sex drive will return, ushered on a wave of maternal hormones. Sex During Pregnancy
While he's waiting for the sex kitten he thought he married to return to the bedroom, I'm just waddling as gracefully as I can towards my due date.
I try to be as affectionate as I can without leading him on, so he still knows that deep underneath this cranky fat chick with heartburn lurks the girl who found him hot and wonderful enough to let him knock her up—twice. I have to be careful, though, because too much affection without follow-through is just plain cruel. And the fact that the boobs I prayed for at 15 have finally shown up—but are painful and off-limits—only rubs salt into his tortured wounds.
I tell myself that once our baby is here and our birth control is firmly in place, I'm really gonna blow his mind to make up for the drought.
I may try to muster enough energy to put out in honor of Valentine's Day. (I'm not totally heartless.) But in the meantime, those of you Angelina Jolie types who make prengnacy sound like a hot amusement park of sexual pleasures? Keep your husbands away from mine at the office parties. Thanks.