Zebra Print.

I went to T.J. Maxx the other day with a gift card given to me by my Aunt Nancy, with the intention of buying some new yoga pants. I have never been 20 weeks pregnant in the dead of winter, and I have no yoga pants that fit properly. I cannot live without yoga pants. 

After discovering that a pregnant person can’t just go up a few sizes in exercise wear and make it work (I looked ridiculous, and therefore will be shopping only at maternity stores from now until June), I wandered around the store, picked up a few dress shirts for Husband, and perused the home decor and boy’s clothing sections. And finally … dun dun dunI looked through the baby girl clothes. 

Wow. There was so much pink.

Here is my first official clothing purchase for THREE. She’s probably going to get an awful lot of pink and lavender gifted to her from family members, so it’s my mission to fill her closet with as much loud/animal print/neon as possible. I can’t have my daughter looking too frilly. She’s MY daughter after all.

  
I love that it says “Daddy Makes Me Smile.”

We’re working on names and it’s a struggle to find one we both really like. I guess some people have their children’s names picked out years ahead of time … we aren’t those people. We just go with whatever the vibe seems to be at the time. And since we already have a Maverick Grayson and an Asher Rhys, we would like to avoid M names and A names.

It’s exhausting.

I don’t want to make this blog all about having a baby, but I just have to say …  

I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS BABY.  

I am also excited about the idea of being done with childbearing. My mother keeps telling me not to put a cap on it permanently, encouraging us to keep our options open. And yes, maybe when I’m 36 and my children are all three years and up I will suddenly find myself wishing for anotherbut I don’t want to give birth to it. 

I would like to close my womb after this. It has served me well, but … no more growing life. No more gestation. I want to focus on the lives I’ve got rummaging through the clean laundry basket, finding my underwear and doing things like this:

 
Handling three children is questionable, and four is … well, just out of the question.

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