celebrating

17 weeks today, and muggins down yonder is a whopping 210 grams and measuring 18cm from head to toe. At least, I think that's what my obstetrician (who happens to be another Chris. Universe? Stop laughing, geez) said. I don't quite recall. Does that make me a bad mother?

Anyway, pish. Who cares? It's a baby!

See?

mine, mine, miney, mine, mine, neener.

Can you see a wee, little hand with a cute as fuck, little thumb type thingy doover appendage thingy? No? Oh. Well, try drinking three tequilas and looking again, because it's definitely there.

I suspect I can recognise my unusually flat head already, which, while unusually flat doesn't usually equal future ubermodel, it might mean that I won't be pushing out a reproduction of its father's big, giant head on Christmas day.

Speaking of the universe, it spoke to me the other day, in answer to my question about the possibility of having it all. The universe said 'Uh, no. I gave you a baby, now gimme your hair. '

Bitch.

Last Friday, it set about redeeming itself when I pondered on how in the name of Geebus Crisp I was going to afford the furniture I want. (I need a big arsed cupboard to stash all this *gestures expansively* officey type and totally baby dangerous crap in) The universe said 'I can't give you cash, but how about I toss a speaking engagement with a national - and totally hip and happening - furniture chain your way? They can't pay you in cash either but the manager did mutter something about 'furniture vouchers'. What say?'

Insert twilight zone music much?

I know shit all about public speaking, but big phat phooey. It'll be fine. I'll just wear a hat on the day.