It seems most pregnancy books agree, to paraphrase, that eight weeks is when you lose your damn mind. I would like to say that I have a better control of my hormones, emotions and damn self than that but that would make me a liar. The week ended in dry heaves, and heavy sobbing and many many tears. I was so sick and dizzy and miserable and seemed to make it my mission to take poor J along with me.
So I would like to pretend that none of this happened.
Saturday we went to his company's Christmas Party (since they make no pretense that this is a "holiday" party I see no reason I should). Last week I sent J to work with instructions to find out what the girls at his office were wearing to the party and he came back with these vague instructions of, "whatever. . . some people wear jeans some people wear dresses," which is decidely NOT HELPFUL and not his fault but fuck ladies help a sister out. If I had realized exactly how much older most of the workers were than us I might have skewed it a little dressier but I didn't and we showed up in cute jeans and nice shirts.
And were the most casually dressed people there.
There were people in beaded tops and cocktail dresses for fuck's sake. Of course, the bright side in all of this is that I could still rock my designer jeans and there was no damn way I was wearing a cocktail dress. So at least I didn't know ahead of time that I could be having a wardrobe crisis. Also, my boobs looked enormous. Like, I wondered if they were a little much but since I have never really had big boobs before I just went for it.
We won a crockpot though. That was worth going for. And we are still sort of inappropriately excited about it.
Today was a much better day. No heaving. No dizziness. No tears. That is practically perfection.