Well, the time is "flying"... ok, no it's not. I'm still quite tired all the time (but still making it to the gym), out of breath (I'm turning into a mouth breather), and crampy (the Huffalump likes to stretch out, I think).
But the cat is out of the bag. People, especially at the gym, are confident in coming up to me to ask when I'm due, which means that, in fitted clothes anyway, I'm out of the "just looks fat" stage. Yay!
Back to the baby: the Huffalump did a fantastic job at its 18-week ultrasound. It flipped and flopped (obviously a natural for "action shots") for the first little while, then settled down for the glamour shots.
At right, the Huffalump has settled down and sucks its adorable little thumb, all curled up. All together now: Awwwwww.
At left, s/he strikes a pensive, wistful pose. Of what does the Huffalump dream? Perhaps another cookie for mom? How could I say no to that face?
Obviously, I'm incubating a future Derek Zoolander, or perhaps a Cindy Crawford (no, we didn't find out!).
No gas fights* for you, young Huffalump! But maybe a walk off wouldn't be out of the question...
*"If there is anything that this horrible tragedy can teach us, it's that a male model's life is a precious, precious commodity. Just because we have chiseled abs and stunning features, it doesn't mean that we too can't not die in a freak gasoline fight accident."