Yeah, so, I’m knocked up.
I’m preggers. I’m PG. I’m preggo. I’m going to be someone’s mom. I’m with child. I’m expecting. The rabbit died. I’ve got a bun in the oven. I’m eating for two. I’m in a family way. I’m a MILF. I’m a baby mama.
I’m officially at the 11 weeks, 6 days mark, or what I like to call it: 12 weeks. This means that we are allowed to go public, and of course, The Sonia Show has the exclusive. I debated selling the story to Us Weekly, but I decided to keep it local.
It’s been really difficult not blogging about it. I don’t like keeping secrets from my tens of readers, but there is a superstition about sharing the pregnancy too early. We had to make sure everything was good to go. I’m sure you understand. The doc says the spawn is stuck in there good and proper, so we can finally tell people.
Mighty, mighty good man David and I are still kinda shocked, but we are so happy. The doctors made it sound like it would be a miracle if a 40-year-old woman got pregnant. I guess we showed them. The Mansfields are good at three things: 1) Making assy jokes; 2) Being loud; and 3) Gettin’ knocked up. The fact that David is a super virile doesn’t hurt either.
We left for our honeymoon at the end of December with the idea that we’d just stop playing it safe. We weren’t going to go crazy and actively try to get pregnant, meaning we weren’t going to mark calendars and take temperatures and all that crap. We were just going to do what people do on their honeymoon and let the babies fall where they may. We had no idea that I would be coming home knocked up.
I have a million stories to share, so I will be posting a lot in the next week, so I can catch you guys up on everything. And I will try very hard to make sure that my blog doesn’t turn into a boring-ass mommy blog about my precious spawn.
Holy shit! We are to be parents. Our apologies in advance, world.