I've been a terrible blogger. I'm sorry. The truth of the matter is ... I've been spending a lot of time with my pillow. Turns out, it takes a lot of energy (and spaghetti and meatballs -- one of my cravings) to grow a baby.
I am officially 17.5 weeks (but whose counting ...) and the baby bump is out there for the world to see. Luckily, the urge to puke has been left behind (but not before a very public incident in the cosmetics aisle of CVS. My apologies to the few unlucky customers that fell victim and to the carpet). But for the most part, aside from wanting to sleep morning, noon and night, things are rolling along.
So a final decision has been made and we will be asking the ultrasound guru to reveal the sex. I have never been a patient person, and I think its unlikely the trait will kick in now. So, waiting another 20 weeks is beyond my capacity. My husband, on the other hand, couldn't be more patient and would love to wait until the finish line. Since this pregnancy hasn't made him puke, I got 51 percent of the vote and gave a promise that if we are lucky enough to get pregnant again, we can go the old-fashioned route and wait to find out on the birth day then.
And although I feel guilty writing it ... I do have a preference. I'm really hoping the stork wrapped up our package in pink.