I think the little one has hit a growth spurt—here I am today, at 31 weeks and a few days.
I find it hard to believe I still have another two months of growing to do. Apparently so did the waitress who served brunch to me, Sidamo and Greg's grandma this morning. She looked at me and said, "Wow! You're about to go!"
"Actually, no," I said. "It's still two months away." But thanks.
When she walked away, I said to Greg's grandma, "You know, no one should ever ask a pregnant woman if she's about to pop." Grandma agreed and then followed up with a very concerned, "But has your doctor put any limit on your weight gain?" Again, thanks.
What's funny is that I've actually not gained much at all—less than the recommended amount, in fact. I can only imagine the comments I'll be getting when I'm 9 months pregnant, especially now that I've given up reigning in my ice cream cravings. Last night I was trying to fix our broken ice cream scooper, and Greg said, "What's the point? You're going to eat it straight out of the container, anyway." He had a point.